


There Is Danger In This

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Angst. Swearing., Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-10
Updated: 2007-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:57:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8090110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: The path to madness lies here.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Warnings: Angst. Swearing.  
  
Spoilers: Possible very slight spoilers for season fourâ€™s Affliction and Divergence  
  
Notes: Vague (and not-so-vague) influences by an episode of SG:1 â€“ one of the few Iâ€™ve seen, so donâ€™t ask me the name or season or anything, although I believe it may have been called â€œLegacy.â€ The idea for the â€œâ€¦or somethingâ€ riff is from that episode.  
  
This is set in the first season, sometime after Shuttlepod One and the incident at Pâ€™Jem.  
  
Trip swears a lot in this one, but for good reason.  


* * *

x-x

Malcolm placed a pill on his tongue, following it with a quick mouthful of water from his canteen. 

Trip moved closer on the bench and ended up almost sliding into him when the shuttle bounced a bit in the planetâ€™s atmosphere. â€œAre you okay?â€ he asked, obviously having seen Malcolm take the medication. His concern was reflected in his eyes, and he kept his voice low so Travis and the captain, who were seated at the front of the small ship, wouldnâ€™t hear. Hoshi was on the bench across from Malcolm, but, dark head bent over her padd, she was so wrapped up in the data there that a bomb could have gone off and sheâ€™d not have noticed. 

â€œYes,â€ Malcolm responded, trying not to let the pain come through in his tone. He sat back against the bulkhead and shut his eyes. â€œAllergies,â€ he summarized. He had a slowly building sinus headache, which was not unusual. Heâ€™d had them seemingly forever, and so long as he took the appropriate drugs early enough, heâ€™d be all right. In fact, Phlox had given him his own supply of light analgesics and decongestants so he could manage on his own. It was rare, now, that it got bad enough to interfere with his work. 

â€œYeah,â€ Trip said, leaning back against the bulkhead. â€œIâ€™ve heard that this place is pretty hot and jungly.â€

Malcolm opened his eyes and gave Trip his best â€œwhat are you on about now?â€ stare. 

â€œWhat?â€ Trip said, brushing a piece of lint from the knee of his sand-coloured uniform. â€œI know you hate that.â€ 

â€œ â€˜Jungly?â€™ Is that even a word?â€

At that, Trip gave him a self-satisfied smile. â€œIt is now.â€

The shuttle made a wide curve, and Malcolm turned his attention to the front viewscreen. The city loomed briefly before the ship banked right and the imagery changed to lush green sub-tropical foliage. From this distance, the landscape seemed quite similar to that near his parentsâ€™ house in Malaysia. 

Although theyâ€™d been to this planet once before, it had been to a different region well over halfway across the globe. This time, the captain had asked and been granted permission to investigate an archaeological dig, more for Hoshiâ€™s sake than for anyone else, although Malcolm had to admit he was looking forward to the visit, heat and humidity aside. The people here were quite friendly, and theyâ€™d dealt with them before â€“ it was actually one of the few missions that stood clear in his memory, as there had been no trouble during it. It would be a welcome respite to return here, now that their dealings with the Andorians and the Vulcans were at an end. Still, he felt a bit on edge. These were a peaceful people, but one never knew, and it was his job to keep the landing party safe. Yet despite that, his anxiety was tempered by his own enthusiastic curiosity. He loved history, and this particular location promised to be steeped in it. 

The ship flew over a clearing and Hoshi looked up, her dark eyes bright with excitement. Since last theyâ€™d visited this planet, Hoshi had been doing research into older forms of the local language. She actually thought it had some relationship to the ancient Thracian languages back on Earth, but how, he had no idea. It wasnâ€™t as if this planet and Earth were close neighbours, and it wasnâ€™t as if people from thousands of years ago on Earth had space travel. More likely these people had somehow visited Earth, and there had been an influence on the Thracian language from that direction. For that to be true, they would have had to stay for quite a long time. It was interesting to think about. He wondered why theyâ€™d visited, and why theyâ€™d left. 

Travis, at the helm, brought the ship in for its landing, and Malcolm returned his attention to the view out the forward viewscreen. As the greenery rose up in a wall before them and a series of low, vine covered buildings made themselves known, he allowed himself a small smile. This promised to be interesting. 

x-x

Trip wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand, and gratefully stepped into the cool of the buildingâ€™s shadowed interior. He stood still a moment, letting the relative cool wash over him as the others in his party entered the room, and he felt grateful for the break. 

The area outside really was jungly, no matter what Malcolm had to say about it. It was even sunnier and more humid than Florida in August, if that were possible. Still, unlike Malcolm, he didnâ€™t really have a problem with sunny and humid. At least not normally, not when he could dress appropriately, but here, their heavy uniforms just werenâ€™t working. They were designed for desert heat, but still werenâ€™t exactly ideal for this particular hot-and-humid environment. He cast a glance to their guide, who was dressed, head to foot, in a long, light colored robe. Theyâ€™d have been better served dressing more like the locals. 

Other than the landing party and their guide, the room heâ€™d stepped into was empty, their footfalls echoing off the chamber walls as they spread around the large space. Hoshi immediately went to the closest wall, peering carefully at something there, while Jon and Travis wandered around the large room with their guide. As usual, Malcolm was keeping a close eye on everyone, but physically staying closest to the captain. 

Trip could see why some people might call Malcolm paranoid, but he knew that Malcolm was usually right. If the man was paranoid, he had reason to be. His focus on those sorts of things had saved their collective asses on more than one occasion.

Trip moved to the nearest wall, standing close and touching its surface with a finger. The building had been hewn from either rock or some sort of clay block, and he could feel the texture and the cool of the stone despite the energy field that protected it from his touch. He pulled his hand away and stepped back, sweeping the wall with his gaze. The large bricks were definitely made from some sort of stone, and based on what their guide had told them, had to be several thousand years old. The fact that he was actually allowed to touch them amazed him. Their guide, Nar, had explained that the field protected the objects from dirt and oil, so they could be handled, while also allowing the objects themselves to breathe, sort of. That was more or less the gist of it, anyway. Heâ€™d love to have a look at the tech behind that thing. 

Trip let his gaze move up, only then noticing that the surface of every block was covered in writing, the script moving around the walls and even up onto the ceiling in places. 

Nar came up beside him, his short, stocky frame reaching only to Tripâ€™s shoulder. 

â€œWhat is this place?â€ Trip asked, glancing at the fair-haired man.

â€œThis particular building has a special place in our history. See here?â€ Nar ran a hand along one line of text. â€œThis is written in the ancient Xandtian language, which weâ€™d never been able to translate. This here?â€ He pointed to a line below it. â€œThis is Trellian, and thisâ€¦,â€ he said, hand moving to a third line, â€œâ€¦is the same thing in Dorish. This buildingâ€¦â€ He smiled, black eyes glinting despite the low light. â€œIt may not look like much, but it was the first time all three languages were found in one place, and doing so allowed us to translate this line in Xandtian.â€ His arm moved, taking in the rest of the room and the writing on every wall. â€œIt was only after translating that one line that the rest of this began to come clear, and we were able to read the first written language of our ancestors.â€

â€œWhat does it say?â€ Trip asked, peering closely at the line of Xandtian text Nar had initially indicated. 

Nar pointed with his hand, fingers closed as was custom, and the dim light made his pale skin glow almost silver. â€œSheia xharm ialo das przeldam poâ€¦â€ His tall, tapered ears twitched, indicating amusement. 

Hoshi, who was squatting and scanning the text along the floor, laughed. â€œPlease wash your hands after using the facilities.â€

Nar nodded and smiled at her. â€œYes. This was, basically, their communal bathroom. This building was surrounded by those of the community, including the temple, school, medical buildingsâ€¦â€ 

Trip leaned toward Malcolm, whoâ€™d come up beside him. â€œFunny that something so significant ended up being about the bathroom,â€ he said, keeping his voice low.

Malcolm shrugged. â€œOur own Rosetta Stone was mainly concerned with tax law.â€ 

As their guide went on talking to Hoshi, Trip saw Jon head toward the exit, and then he watched Malcolmâ€™s gaze as it followed Jon out the door. Trip caught Malcolmâ€™s eye and raised an eyebrow, and Malcolm responded by rolling his eyes with a hint of amusement and a long-suffering expression. Knowing that he and Travis could stay behind with Hoshi and the guide, Trip nodded, and Malcolm followed the captain out. 

x-x

Malcolm squinted against the bright sunlight, lifting a hand to shade his eyes. His headache had lessened in the cool of the building, but the intense light caused it to flare, and he winced.

He saw Archer enter the next building, its doorway almost completely hidden by the vegetation growing across it, so he followed. While it was the case that their past experiences here had been peaceful ones, it was best that the captain not be wandering off on his own. He pushed aside the greenery and entered behind the man, earning himself a smile when Archer caught sight of him. 

This building was much larger than the last. It seemed to consist of one large room, with an arched ceiling reaching high above them. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he could see that, as with the other building, every surface was covered by patterns of scrolling text swirling across walls, ceiling, even the floor under his feet. Although unlike the previous building, these were done as frescos, rather than carvings, and here, the writing seemed more stylized â€“ writing as art, likely indicating that this structure was a bit more than a bath. Between the decoration and feel of the space, it somewhat reminded him of the Islamic temples back home. 

As Archer strode toward the far wall, Malcolm made to follow him but, noticing something slightly different about one particular area of the nearest wall, he paused, then moved closer. The fresco in that area curled around a built-in, rock-hewn ewer, the basin coming a good half metre out of the wall. He ran a hand down inside the curved bowl. It was very smooth, likely worn by time and handling. 

Hearing footsteps nearby, he turned, expecting to see Archer there, but the captain was still across the room. He was about to turn back to the basin when he felt a chill, andâ€¦

â€œMalcolm?â€

A whisper to his left, and he turned only to hear,

â€œMalcolm?â€

From behind him. He twisted around, but clearly no one was there. What in the world? Heart beating wildly, he blinked and cocked his head, letting his eyes go unfocused as he listened. No one on this planet even knew his first name, so how â€“

â€œMalcolm?â€

He heard again, this time from the middle of the room, so he walked there slowly, carefully observing the space around him. Other than the quiet voice, the room was silent, save for the soft padding of his own footfalls. Brow furrowed, he stood in the centre of the space, eyes going to the ceiling spreading above him as he listened. Nothing. 

He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

â€œYou okay, Malcolm?â€ Archer said, expression showing his concern. 

He replied with a hasty, â€œYes, Sir. Sorry. Did you just hear something?â€

â€œNo,â€ Archer replied. â€œOther than the rain.â€ He nodded toward the entry, and Malcolm could clearly see water dripping from the leaves covering the roomâ€™s entrance. 

He nodded crisply. â€œThat must have been it,â€ he said, but he didnâ€™t believe it. He knew what heâ€™d heard. 

â€œCome on,â€ Archer said, nodding toward the doorway as he started moving. When Malcolm reached his side, he added, â€œHave to admit, youâ€™re sort of the last person I expected to catch unawares.â€

â€œI was justâ€¦â€ Malcolm stopped and forced a smile, taking a last look around at the frescos as he tried to cover his disquiet. â€œBeautiful building, isnâ€™t it?â€ 

x-x

Malcolm handed one of the blankets to Hoshi, reaching into the supply cabinet beside his bench to pull out another for Travis, who was again piloting. As Hoshi moved to bring it and the one sheâ€™d collected for the captain to the front of the ship, Malcolm pulled his own tightly around his shoulders. Theyâ€™d all become drenched on the way back to the shuttle, the rainfall having only grown denser with their time at the site. By the time Hoshi felt she had enough data for her work, the rain was coming as a steady downpour, and theyâ€™d had to dash for the shuttle. 

Those strange voices hadnâ€™t reoccurred, for which he was grateful. He chalked the experience up to the tiredness and distraction brought on by his headache, and left it at that. 

Trip, across from him, sneezed, and the entire crew burst out in a chorus of â€œbless yous.â€ As Trip then proceeded to try to dry his hair with the edge of his blanket, Malcolm couldnâ€™t help but smile. The blankets were useful â€“ it was cool in the ship, and he was sure his shipmates were feeling as chilled as he himself was. But in the end, they werenâ€™t particularly absorbent, and he thought towels might have better served. He made a mental note to speak to the quartermaster about his idea once back on Enterprise. 

â€œDo you guys mind if I raise the temperature in here a little?â€ Travis shot back from the front, echoing Malcolmâ€™s own thoughts. 

â€œYes, good, please,â€ Hoshi said in response, settling back onto the bench beside Trip. â€œI didnâ€™t even get a chance to visit the other buildings,â€ she said, addressing Trip. â€œApparently, one of them, the whole thing is covered in a history of their people, up to about two thousand years ago, and thereâ€™s so much there, they havenâ€™t even finished translating it yet.â€

As Hoshi and Trip discussed what sheâ€™d learned on the planet, Malcolm pulled his blanket yet tighter and let his eyes fall shut, their words flowing past him. His headache was still there, a low buzz of pain just under the surface, and it was beginning to wear him down. 

â€œMalcolm?â€ 

His eyes flashed open. Pulse racing, he looked over at Hoshi and Trip, whose heads were bent over Hoshiâ€™s padd. â€œDid you just call me?â€ he asked, nerves now on edge. 

They both looked up at him. â€œNo,â€ Hoshi said, seeming puzzled. 

Trip shook his head. With a smile in his eyes, he said, â€œI think you feel asleep.â€

â€œSorry,â€ Malcolm said, feeling more than a bit sheepish. 

At Hoshiâ€™s reassuring grin, he let his eyes close again, and his friends returned to their exchange. He let the sounds of the shuttle lull him; the pulse of the engines and the soft buzz of the conversations around him creating a blanket of white noise. 

There was an odd rattle, growing until it became the centre of his focus, piercing through the rest of the ambient noise. Turning his head toward it, he opened his eyes and frowned. It was the supply cabinet door. It certainly was loud. He rested his fingers lightly on it, feeling the vibration, and looked at Hoshi and Trip. They were still enmeshed in their conversation, and didnâ€™t seem to have noticed. How could they not? The sound was all out of proportion to what it was normally. 

He pulled his hand away, trying to relax, but the grating of the door was almost all he could hear. He slammed his eyes shut and started humming, very softly so the others wouldnâ€™t notice, trying to make the music his point of focus, rather than the noises around him. After a while, he drifted off, the headache, the meds, and the events of the day finally tugging him under. 

x-x

Malcolm followed the others from the shuttle, still a bit bleary despite his nap on the way back. He could feel his headache, stronger now, and a sense of pressure along the bridge of his nose and through his sinuses. Best if he could get the formalities here in the shuttle bay over with quickly, so he could get back to his quarters and rest or, if needs must, even go to sickbay and see if he could get stronger medications than those which heâ€™d already taken. 

The landing party stood just at the door, and Malcolm stayed behind the group as they bantered. He didnâ€™t bother trying to keep up with what was being discussed. 

Archer said something which elicited a laugh from the others, and he gave Travis a firm pat on the shoulder before he left the bay. 

Eyes on the door, Malcolm was just about to leave himself when Hoshi laughed loudly. The noise caught him by surprise, and he turned back only to see someone â€“ not human â€“ standing beside her. Heart racing, hand already moving to where his weapon would be were he wearing one, he blinked, and the alien was gone. 

Fully alert now, he turned to the others. They were still laughing at whatever Hoshi had said. Theyâ€™d obviously not seen anything. 

Hoshi caught his eye, and she frowned. â€œAre you okay?â€ she asked, seeming concerned. 

Malcolm felt the eyes of the group move to him, and he had to stop himself from actually taking a step back. Instead he answered, keeping his tone purposefully even, â€œYes, sorry. Headache.â€ He forced his attention to the scene before him, trying hard not to think of what heâ€™d just seen â€“ or thought heâ€™d seen. He must be far more tired than he thought. Just to be sure, heâ€™d check the sensor logs on his way back to the bridge. One could never be too careful. He willed his shoulders to relax and his breathing to even out. 

Trip stepped beside him and patted him on the back. â€œListen,â€ he said, eyes moving from Malcolm, to Hoshi, to Travis. â€œI think we could all use a little fun. So tonight, the observation lounge, a little poker, a few beers. You in?â€

â€œYou kidding?â€ Hoshi replied. â€œAbsolutely.â€ 

Travis, crossing his arms over his chest, seemed hesitant. He bit his lip. â€œAhâ€¦â€

Hoshi suddenly looked apologetic, and Malcolm remembered Trip mentioning that she had beat the hell out of Travis in their last game. She had also, apparently, beat Trip. And heâ€™d heard rumour of her soundly trouncing Rostov, who was reputed to be quite the card sharp himself.

Trip winced, and nodded. â€œThisâ€™ll be low stakes. Playing for snacks, all right?â€ 

Travis nodded, still seeming a bit reluctant. 

â€œEight oâ€™clock, then,â€ Trip replied. â€œMalcolm?â€

After a momentâ€™s thought, Malcolm nodded. Although normally heâ€™d tend to avoid socializing with junior officers such as Travis and Hoshi, he needed the distraction. He was tired, and his headache certainly was not helping matters, and those two things were likely causing him to... He decided to stop that train of thought before it could progress. 

Heâ€™d get some sleep before the game, as there were a good three hours before then, and heâ€™d be right as rain. As the others left the shuttle bay, he followed them out and headed for the armoury. He promised himself that, if the logs showed nothing unusual, heâ€™d head directly to his quarters. 

Heâ€™d get some rest. Heâ€™d play some poker. Heâ€™d be fine. 

x-x

Malcolm stood before the mirror in his shower room, eyes narrowing as he stared at the face in the mirror. Dark hair, fair skin, blue eyes â€“ all in order. He looked all right. Tired, certainly a bit stressed, but otherwise normal. But despite outward appearances and his own best efforts, he wasnâ€™t sure that in fact he was. 

Reaching down, he triggered the water and splashed some over his face. The voices had spooked him, and then heâ€™d seen the alien, if thatâ€™s what it wasâ€¦ It couldnâ€™t be, though, as no one else had seen it, and nothing had shown in the logs. Still, he could remember the face of it, almost insect-like, its dark, shiny â€“

Rubbing his face roughly with the towel, he forced those thoughts from his mind. He was simply tired, and his headache was getting to him. Refusing to look at his reflection again, he threw his towel into the corner and started undressing. Heâ€™d just pulled off his shirt when he heard it.

â€œMalcolm.â€ 

He froze, shirt clenched in his hand as his breath caught. It was that same bloody voice, whispering his name. When it didnâ€™t come again, he stepped into his bedroom. He let his eyes get used to the dim light, then move slowly over every object, peer into every corner. Nothing. He went to re-enter his lav when he heard it again.

â€œMalcolm.â€

It was coming from the shower. He let the shirt fall to the floor, then raised his hands, ready to defend himself. He approached the frosted glass of the shower enclosure slowly, his boots making only the slightest sound against the deck. Reaching out one hand toward the door handle, he heard the voice say, â€œWeâ€™re here for you,â€ and he stopped, hand jerking back as if burnt. It was the first time the voice had said anything other than his name, but it was still speaking too softly for him to distinguish if it was male or female. A tremor ran through his frame as he cautiously placed a hand on the handle. â€œItâ€™s time,â€ the voice whispered again. It was quiet, but it was definitely coming from within the shower. 

Heart beating madly, Malcolm jerked open the door and it flew back and hit the wall with a bang. 

There was nothing there. 

Unable to control his shaking, he leaned against the doorframe with his head down. He sucked in a ragged breath. He should go see Phlox. Go seeâ€¦ someone. This couldnâ€™t be happening. Something was wrong. But God, no. If he saw a doctor for something like this, heâ€™d either be laughed from the room or never allowed to leave. 

Maybe he was just tired. 

The voice came again, â€œMalcolm,â€ whispering his name, and he reacted before he could stop himself.

â€œWhat do you want!â€ he roared out, hands clenched, face to the ceiling. When no response came, he huffed a quiet laugh. Of course. Of course. 

x-x

Brushing a quick hand through his hair, Malcolm triggered the door for the observation lounge. It opened to reveal a small table in the middle of the tiny room, chairs around it, with a stack of cards in its middle and a pile of bags beside it. The small room was made more crowded with Travis and Trip standing in the only free space left, that by the observation port. 

Trip turned to him with a smile and a hearty, â€œMalcolm!â€ Trip obviously hadnâ€™t thought heâ€™d show, and based on his past refusals of similar invitations, and his professed beliefs that he, as a superior officer, should not be overly social with more junior staff, he could certainly understand why. But tonight was different. 

Hoshi came up behind him, giving him a gentle shove to push him through the doorway. As she slid past him, she smiled, then turned to the others, raising the bag in her hand as she did so. â€œIâ€™ve brought the chocolate,â€ she said in a portentous voice. â€œWe can begin.â€

Malcolm felt the heat rising to his cheeks when he realised what was in the bags beside the table. In his distraction, heâ€™d forgotten to bring his own contribution. â€œIâ€™m sorry,â€ he started, and Hoshiâ€™s smile softened. 

She leaned in toward him and whispered, as if the others werenâ€™t close enough to hear, â€œDonâ€™t worry, you can share mine.â€

At that, Travis piped in, also sotto voce, â€œYeah. Sheâ€™ll only just win â€˜em back, anyway.â€

Malcolm returned their smiles, and joined them as they settled at the table. He was right to come here; it was a welcome distraction. It had taken some time after the incident in his shower, but heâ€™d finally managed to get some sleep. Probably not as much as he needed, but still, enough to make himself feel a bit more balanced. He nodded at Trip as the man began dealing the cards. Nothing odd had happened since heâ€™d woken, so hopefully, the sleep had taken care of it. It has certainly taken care of his headache. Still, he felt tense, on edge. It was as if he was waiting for the next thing to happen, whatever that might be. 

Once everyone finally had their cards, they began the process of playing the game. Heâ€™d picked up a piece of chocolate from the pile Hoshi had donated to his cause and was about to place a bet when he noticed a sudden movement from across the table, just over Tripâ€™s shoulder. It was gone as quickly as it had come, and he forced his eyes back to his cards, trying to keep his hand from trembling. 

No, he thought, absolutely refusing to believe that it was starting again. Whatever it had been, no one else had seen it. Hoshi, beside him, was staring right at Trip, bantering with him, teasing him about his hand, and even she hadnâ€™t noticed anything. A trick of the light, then, he thought, consciously trying to relax his fingers as they held the cards; his knuckles had gone white, his fingers were so rigid. 

The movement came again, this time from beside Trip. Head going up in a flash, Malcolm saw the alien there, the same one from earlier. The creature was staring at him. As he watched, it lifted one appendage, and Malcolm caught the glint of metal in its grip. It thrust the object down toward Trip.

Before Malcolm could even think, heâ€™d pushed himself forward and shot toward the invader, crashing through the table, cards flying up and everywhere. The alien shifted to the side, faster than a human could, so fast that the movement blurred, and Malcolm steadied himself and raised an arm to strike. He felt a sharp tug to his shoulder. Someone pulled him back. He swung around, barely stopping himself when he realised it was Trip. 

â€œWhat are you doing?â€ Trip asked, voice ringing loud in the sudden silence. Trip held his arm in a firm hand, alarm and confusion warring in his expression. 

Malcolmâ€™s eyes flitted from Trip, to Hoshi, to Travis, and back to Trip. It was gone. Where had it â€“?

The dark shape was there again, next to Trip. Malcolm struggled, eyes only for the alien, and he made to launch himself toward it. Someone shouted his name and he felt strong arms grab his waist and pull him back. He looked over his shoulder and saw Travis.

Trip said something to Hoshi and, eyes wide, she went to the comm. on the wall, speaking into it hastily. What she said was lost in the pound of blood through his veins, filling his ears. The alien was â€“ it was there, behind Hoshi, now. Adrenaline rushing through his body, Malcolm bent and pulled, throwing his guard off-balance enough to twist of out his grip. He dove toward the dark thing, but felt himself yanked away again, violently spun and shoved aside. Then he was grabbed. Someone shouted his name and he responded with a wordless groan, struggling madly to get away, to get back to the invader, to protect the ship and his crewmates. 

He broke away again. He was heading for the alien when he felt pressure against his upper arm, and the world swirled around him as he fell. 

x-x

Trip stood near the cabinets by Malcolmâ€™s biobed, aimlessly examining the objects Phlox kept on the counter, rather than stowed in the drawers below. A vial of some sort of green liquid. A padd. A medical scanner. He reached for the scanner, catching his reflection in its dark screen. He looked somewhat the worse for wear: a bruise livid on his cheek, a cut on his swollen lip. Heâ€™d taken the brunt of it in their attempts to restrain Malcolm. 

That had to have been the scariest fucking thing heâ€™d ever been through. One minute, heâ€™d been dealing out cards, fine and dandy, and literally the next second, without warning, the man across the table from him had attacked, shouting something about aliens. 

After Phlox and company had gotten to the room and Malcolm had beenâ€¦ Ah, Jesus, Trip thought, rubbing a rough hand across his eyes. He tossed the scanner back onto the counter. Heâ€™d done his due diligence, checking the ship for intruders, but had come up empty. Heâ€™d even had Tâ€™Pol take a pass at it, much as it wounded him to do so, but sheâ€™d also found nothing. Because there was nothing there. 

He heard rustling from behind him, and turned to look at the man on the biobed. Malcolm lay there, head turned in his direction, eyes open and seeming clear. 

â€œHey,â€ Trip said in greeting. It wasnâ€™t Shakespeare, but itâ€™d do for now. He leaned his ass against the edge of the counter behind him and grasped its edge with his hands, keeping a bit of distance between himself and the man on the bed. 

Malcolm looked up at him. â€œHello,â€ he said. Then his brow wrinkled, blue eyes turning stormy, and Trip assumed heâ€™d noticed the bruises. â€œAre you all right?â€ Malcolm asked.

Trip nodded curtly and said, â€œWhat happened?â€ Malcolm tried to rise, but Trip stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. â€œDonâ€™t,â€ he said, his voice coming softer than before. 

â€œThere was an alien,â€ Malcolm said plainly, as if that fact should be apparent. â€œAn intruder.â€

Trip kept his voice calm and even. â€œThere was no alien.â€

Malcolm frowned. â€œThere was.â€

Trip shook his head. â€œHoshi didnâ€™t see it. Neither did Travis. And we checked the ship.â€

â€œYou didnâ€™t see it?â€ Malcolm asked. â€œAnd nothing on sensors?â€ When Trip shook his head again in response, expression held carefully neutral, Malcolm added, â€œIâ€™d thought not,â€ his face showing that he wasnâ€™t all that surprised.

â€œOh,â€ Trip said. It was all he could think of saying in response. They lapsed into silence, Trip still standing beside the bed, hands clasped tightly behind him. Malcolm had obviously seen something â€“ something which hadnâ€™t been there. The implications of that made him deeply uncomfortable. 

Malcolm asked, â€œWhereâ€™d you get the bruises?â€

â€œWhen you â€“â€ Trip cut himself off. He gave Malcolm a half smile as he rephrased. â€œCollateral damage.â€

â€œSorry.â€ Malcolm winced.

â€œNot your fault.â€ 

Trip stood in silence for a moment. Malcolm seemed okay. Alien thing aside, of course, but he was otherwise acting like his normal self. So what had happened? Trip inhaled loudly, then dragged a chair in close and sat. â€œWhy are you the only one who can see these aliens?â€ He reached forward and pressed the button to raise the head of Malcolmâ€™s bed. 

Malcolm nodded gratefully. â€œI donâ€™t know. Maybe theyâ€™re doing it purposefully.â€

â€œMaking it so only you can see them?â€ Trip said, unable to keep the doubt from his tone.

â€œRight.â€

â€œBecauseâ€¦â€

Malcolm looked less certain. â€œIâ€™m not sure.â€

Trip cast a quick glance around them, glad that sickbay was otherwise unoccupied. He dropped his voice anyway. â€œWhy do they only appear to you? I mean, youâ€™re the tactical officer, and head of security. Youâ€™re probably the last person theyâ€™d want to appear to, if they were choosing.â€

â€œBut â€“â€

Trip interrupted. â€œThere were no aliens, Malcolm.â€

â€œBut itâ€™s either aliens, or...â€ 

Trip could practically see Malcolmâ€™s mind racing through the possibilities, and quite obviously not liking what they were.

â€œâ€¦Something,â€ Trip said, finishing Malcolmâ€™s sentence for him.

Malcolmâ€™s eyes went wide, and he hesitated. â€œPhlox is checking?â€

â€œFor all the usual suspects, yes,â€ Trip said. 

â€œYouâ€™re sure there was no â€“â€

â€œPositive,â€ Trip said firmly. He had no idea of what was wrong, but if anyone or anything had been on board, something would have shown in their readings. 

Now it was Malcolmâ€™s turn to say, â€œOh.â€

x-x

Trip leaned forward across the large table, eyes roaming from Jon, to Tâ€™Pol, and finally to Phlox. Malcolm was conspicuously absent. 

â€œIs he okay?â€ Trip asked, cutting to the chase. Heâ€™d already told Jon that there had been no aliens, not even a glitch in the sensor readings that could be interpreted as anyone having come aboard, or been in the observation lounge or, hell, anywhere else on, in or near the ship. The only possibility left, one he didnâ€™t want to think too hard on, was that something was wrong with his friend.

â€œHeâ€™s resting comfortably,â€ Phlox responded. The grin that was so often present on the Denobulanâ€™s face was noticeably missing. 

â€œSo what the hell happened?â€ Trip asked, his words coming out harsher than heâ€™d intended. 

â€œTrip,â€ the captain said firmly. He gave Trip a look that clearly indicated that he should rein it in. 

Phlox went on as if nothing had happened. â€œHe appears to have had a psychotic episode.â€

â€œPsychotic?â€ Jon said, his surprise clear on his face and in his tone. 

â€œWhat?â€ Trip spat out, pulse racing as his tension increased. Seeing that the doctor was about to speak, he shook his head and leaned further forward, sliding his arms across the table. â€œNo, thatâ€™s impossible. Heâ€™s been fine up until now. I mean, heâ€™s been tired, butâ€¦â€ His eyes rested on Tâ€™Pol. If he hadnâ€™t known better, heâ€™d have thought she also looked surprised. His gaze returned to Phlox when the doctor spoke. 

â€œHe hasnâ€™t been fine until now. Not completely. He had been having headaches.â€ His expression turned almost apologetic. â€œWeâ€™d thought they were related to his sinuses, butâ€¦â€ Phlox shook his head. â€œThose are often a first symptom, and with the restâ€¦â€ He turned to Jon. â€œItâ€™s too soon to tell.â€

â€œTell what, exactly?â€ Trip asked, not liking where this conversation was going. 

Phlox seemed unwilling to say more. â€œCaptain, Iâ€™d rather wait until Iâ€™ve done more testing.â€

â€œWorst case, doctor?â€ Jon said, expression sober.

Phloxâ€™s light eyes glanced over Trip before they returned to Jon. â€œIt could be schizophrenia.â€

Trip sat back in shock, unable to respond. 

It took Tâ€™Pol to bring up the obvious. â€œThat seems unlikely,â€ she said, her calm voice in direct contrast to the heat Trip was feeling. Trip found himself suddenly and absurdly grateful for the quiet logic with which the Vulcan would likely approach this situation.

Phlox turned to Tâ€™Pol. â€œAs Iâ€™d said, itâ€™s too early to tell, but heâ€™s at the right age for onset, and his symptoms do fit. Heâ€™s showing significantly elevated dopamine levels, and with the paranoid delusions and the hallucinations â€“â€

Tâ€™Pol arched an eyebrow. â€œBut if it is mental illness, could it not be schizophreniform disorder, or even a brief psychiatric disorder?â€ 

Phlox nodded, glancing down at the padd in his hand. â€œIt very well could be; thus the need to proceed with caution. In any event, treatment is the same: medication, psychotherapy and, in extreme cases, hospitalization.â€

Trip couldnâ€™t help but interrupt. He waved an arm, taking in the room. â€œIt has to be something else: stress, or something. Isnâ€™t there some kind of test? I mean, I just saw him. Other than the alien thing, heâ€™sâ€¦â€ He threw his hands up. â€œHeâ€™s normal,â€ he said, stressing that last word.

Phlox shook his head. â€œIâ€™ve already ruled out other possible causes â€“ issues with his thyroid, a metabolic imbalance, infection, disease, brain lesions, drug induced psychosis, amongst others.â€

Trip splayed his fingers on the tabletop, feeling completely lost. â€œBut it was only one incident.â€ He could actually feel his heart beating, and he had to force himself to take a breath before he could continue. â€œIn the observation lounge.â€ 

Phloxâ€™s gaze turned sympathetic. â€œNot according to him, no.â€

Trip sat back in disbelief, letting the rest of the conversation wash over him. This was not possible. Heâ€™d known people with schizophrenia; hell, his step-aunt had it. It was not pretty. Even treated, people were neverâ€¦ Damn it, there was no nice way to say it, but they werenâ€™t normal. And it was scary as hell if untreated. But most people with schizophrenia werenâ€™t violent. Best he knew, only paranoid schizophrenics got violent. Is that what Malcolm was? Damn it, what kind of life would the man have? Even with drugs, this disease was bad news, and the drugs themselves did a number on you. 

Trip clenched the edge of the table. â€œSo, what now?â€

â€œWeâ€™ll medicate him, and he can rest in sickbay for now.â€ Phlox said. â€œWeâ€™ll observe him. If it continues or gets worse, or if he becomes a danger to himself or others, weâ€™ll have to return him to Earth at our first opportunity.â€

â€œBut it could stop,â€ Trip said numbly. 

â€œIt could,â€ Phlox responded, but he didnâ€™t seem convinced. 

Trip let his head sink into his hands.

x-x

The next day brought Trip to sickbay once again. Approaching Malcolmâ€™s bed, he nodded to one of the medics, who was across the room bandaging Ensign Ramirezâ€™s ankle. 

The meeting with Phlox had shaken him deeply. He refused to believe that Malcolm could be that ill. It just didnâ€™t seem possible. It didnâ€™t seem right. It couldnâ€™t be right. Hell, right now Malcolm was sitting up in bed, reading something from a padd. Other than being dressed in sweats, the man appeared completely normal. Phlox had to be wrong. 

Trip took a deep breath, relaxed his shoulders, and schooled his features carefully. 

Malcolm looked up at Tripâ€™s approach. 

â€œWhatâ€™s going on with you?â€ Trip asked, keeping his tone as close to normal as he could. He spun the bedside chair around and slid into it. Draping his arms across its back, he rested his chin on them and peered at his friend. 

Malcolm gave him an odd look. â€œPhlox told you?â€

Trip nodded. 

â€œIâ€™m feeling fine,â€ Malcolm said, emphasising that last word. He let the hand with the padd drop into his lap. 

â€œBut youâ€™re not.â€ Trip said, a statement rather than a question. He kept his voice low to shield their conversation somewhat from the people across the room.

â€œIâ€™m not,â€ Malcolm replied in the same tone. â€œIâ€™ve been seeing things.â€

â€œLike back in the observation lounge?â€

â€œYeah,â€ Malcolm said, arms flying up and wrapping around himself. â€œYes.â€

â€œAre you still seeing them?â€ Trip asked cautiously, trying to keep his voice calm and even.

Malcolm actually looked around the room before he responded, â€œNot right now, no. I feel fine,â€ he said, insistently. â€œNormal. Notâ€¦â€ He waved a hand round his head. 

Trip could tell now that his friend was a bit off, but it wasnâ€™t necessarily because of what Phlox was thinking. It could be excessive stress, or lack of sleep, or even the meds that Phlox had put him on. Who the hell knew? 

â€œPhlox had said that the observation lounge wasnâ€™t the first time.â€

Malcolm frowned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. â€œEarlier, after I touched the basin, and thenâ€¦â€ He looked up at Trip. â€œLater, they said they wanted me, and â€“â€

Trip covered his own nerves by straightening up. He found himself loath to ask the obvious question. â€œVoices?â€

â€œYes,â€ Malcolm replied, suddenly seeming reluctant to go on. â€œFrom earlier, in my shower.â€

â€œIn the shower?â€ Trip asked dubiously.

Malcolm cocked his head. â€œThat doesnâ€™t sound right, does it?â€

â€œNo. Not exactly.â€ Trip tried to smile, but he knew it probably came off weak, so he gave it up as a lost cause and rested his chin on his arms again. â€œWhy are you the only one who can see these aliens? Or who hears these voices?â€

Malcolm sat up straight and turned to fully face him, legs over the side of the bed, one hand keeping the padd on his lap steady. â€œIâ€™ve been thinking about it. What if I was exposed to something down on that planet, some sort of drug or the like, and it affected me, or made me able to perceive, or see things that othersâ€¦â€

Trip looked up through raised brows. 

â€œThat must sound mad,â€ Malcolm said. 

Trip held up a hand, index finger and thumb an inch apart. â€œLittle bit.â€

Malcolm leaned forward. â€œBut stranger things have happened out here.â€

â€œTrue,â€ Trip replied, hesitant. â€œSo, what next?â€

Malcolm gave him a wry smile. â€œPhlox has already got me drugged to the gills, and heâ€™d like me to stay here for now.â€ His smile had dropped away by that last bit, and Trip remembered how much Malcolm hated sickbay. â€œCommanderâ€¦â€ The corner of his mouth quirked as he rephrased. â€œTrip, can you do me a favor?â€

â€œMaybe.â€ Trip said, not wanting to promise anything he couldnâ€™t deliver. â€œWhat do you need?â€

â€œIf Iâ€™m going to be here for a while,â€ Malcolm slid forward on the bed, and the padd clattered to the floor, unnoticed by him. â€œTalk to the captain, will you? Maybe justâ€¦ just see if theyâ€™ll release me to my quarters. Post a guard, or monitor me, or something of that sort, I donâ€™t know.â€ His eyes darted around the room frantically, resting briefly on Ramirez and the medic. â€œFind a way to take me off display. Please.â€ Gaze returning to Trip, his lips twisted into an odd smile. â€œIf have to spend much more time in here, I really will go mad.â€

x-x

Trip slid the playing card across the floor, taking another from the pile theyâ€™d laid out before them. He tucked the new card into his hand and waited for Malcolm to play his turn. 

It had taken some doing, but Trip finally got Phlox and the captain to agree to release Malcolm to quarters. The meds seemed to be working, and since there were no long-term facilities in sickbay, and the place wasnâ€™t equipped for treating mental health issues anyway, Phlox had finally agreed, subject to certain conditions: and that there was someone inside with Malcolm whenever possible, that there was a guard outside the door when Malcolm was alone, and that he be monitored twenty-four/seven. 

Trip felt like it was overkill. Malcolm hadnâ€™t had another hallucination since Phlox had put him on the medications and, although he wasnâ€™t always acting one-hundred-percent himself, he was, thinking engineering-wise, within six standard deviations of normal. Well under the bell curve. Totally six-sigma. 

Trip himself was trying to spend as much of his off-time with Malcolm as he could. He knew that Hoshi, Travis, Jon, and even Tâ€™Pol had also been visiting. All good. He knew, if he had to spend all his time in his quarters, heâ€™d get kind of antsy, but Malcolm seemed to be doing all right, and it was a significant improvement over sickbay â€“ at least it afforded the man some privacy. 

And so now Malcolm was trying to teach him how to play a card game called â€œUno.â€ Travis had actually had the Uno cards, and had left them behind in Malcolmâ€™s room so others could play. So far, he thought that Malcolm was beating the pants off of him, but he wasnâ€™t yet sure enough of the rules to be certain. 

Malcolm still hadnâ€™t played his hand, so Trip reached over with a card and tapped him on the knee. â€œYou still with me?â€

Malcolm looked up from his cards, expression unreadable. â€œSorry. Yes. I was justâ€¦â€ He didnâ€™t finish the sentence, instead frowning slightly. 

Trip put down his cards, tension crawling up his spine. â€œWhatâ€™s wrong?â€

â€œNothing,â€ Malcolm said, his smile strained. His eyes flashed from Trip, to the door, to the bureau, and back to Trip. â€œIâ€™m fine.â€

â€œSo why arenâ€™t you playing?â€

Malcolm glanced down at the cards in his hands. â€œOh. Yes. Iâ€™d forgotten.â€ He looked up again. 

Trip put down his cards. Now he was seriously worried. â€œSomethingâ€™s bugging you. Out with it.â€

Malcolm stared at him for a moment, as if unsure of how he should respond. Finally, he tossed his own cards onto the floor in exasperation. â€œI feel like Iâ€™mâ€¦â€ He hesitated, shook his head, then continued. â€œItâ€™s as if Iâ€™m waiting for that nextâ€¦ what have you.â€

Trip sucked in a breath. â€œMaybe nothing else will happen.â€

â€œMaybe.â€ Malcolm grabbed at the cards before them, pulling them into the pile. He began shuffling it, his movements jerky and a bit frantic. 

Trip waited, knowing that his friend needed time.

Malcolm said this next so quietly that Trip almost missed it. â€œIâ€™m afraid Iâ€™m losing control.â€

Trip knew the man well enough to realise the import of that statement. After a moment, he said, â€œWhy do you think that?â€ keeping his voice equally as soft. 

Malcolm stared down at the cards flowing through his hands. â€œItâ€™sâ€¦â€ He frowned, and his gaze went from the cards to the empty space over Tripâ€™s shoulder. He shut his eyes. â€œI canâ€™t help it. I donâ€™t want to see them, or hear, but I keep doing so.â€ He opened them, and Trip could tell immediately that something had changed.

Tension building, Trip made to push up from the floor. He tried to keep his movements slow and calm, so as not to spook his friend. â€œYou need to tell Phlox â€“â€ The rest of Tripâ€™s comment was cut off by the force of Malcolmâ€™s body as he plowed into him. 

Malcolm shouted something that Trip didnâ€™t catch, and he flew back, head slamming into the deck, Malcolm on top of him, head up, eyes searching for something that Trip couldnâ€™t see. 

Malcolm pushed away from him, leaving him on the floor, dazed, as the man headed for the door. 

Tripâ€™s head swam slightly as he tried to focus on what happened next. The door opened. There were medics there. One of them looked in his direction, rather than at Malcolm, and thatâ€™s all it took â€“ Malcolm was pushing through them, making for the open door. They grappled with him and one of them shot something into Malcolmâ€™s arm, which immediately dropped him to the floor. 

Next he knew, one of the medics was kneeling beside him, looking into his eyes. â€œAre you all right, Commander?â€

Trip nodded sharply, regretting the motion as his vision shifted. 

The medic said something about a concussion, but Trip ignored him, instead letting his eyes rest on Malcolm. The other medics were around his unconscious form. What had just happened? Malcolm had obviously seen something. But the meds had been working, damn it. Hadnâ€™t they?

He hadnâ€™t wanted to believe it, what Phlox had said. Heâ€™d hoped it was stress. Orâ€¦or exhaustion. Or anything other than â€“

He believed it now. 

x-x

Malcolm woke in sickbay, pain flashing through his hands, arms, shoulders and back. In a panic, he tried to sit, but he had been restrained. He struggled against the bonds at his wrists and ankles and felt the bite as they cut into the skin, but he didnâ€™t care, he had to get out, to â€“

A face loomed above him, his blurred vision making it hard to make out at first. He recognised it as Phlox as soon as the doctor spoke.

â€œLieutenant Reed. Can you hear me?â€

â€œLet me go!â€ Malcolm shouted, practically growling in his frustration. His throat hurt as if he had been yelling for some time. He didnâ€™t remember yelling. He and Trip had been playing cards. Why was he here? 

â€œYouâ€™ve been hallucinating.â€ Phlox said firmly. A medic moved into view nearby, and only then did Malcolm notice the IV dripping into his left arm. â€œWeâ€™re adjusting your medications.â€ His eyes flashed to the monitors bleeping madly, their tone steadily rising. Phlox hove into view again. â€œI donâ€™t want to sedate you unless I must. But if you donâ€™t calm down, you wonâ€™t leave me a choice.â€

â€œMalcolm?â€ 

Malcolm twisted his head from side to side, trying to block out the voice. It wasnâ€™t fair. Heâ€™d taken the bloody meds. Heâ€™d done what theyâ€™d asked, and still, and stillâ€¦

â€œMalcolm.â€ Quite close this time, and he twisted his head in that direction, trying to see, but the medic pulled the curtain closed in a harsh scrape of metal, cutting off his view of the rest of the room. 

Malcolm let out an inarticulate groan. He could feel heat in his cheeks, pressure in his chest, in his head, as he struggled against the restraints. The medicâ€™s hands were on his shoulders, pushing him down as he strained upward, feeling slickness as the restraints bit into his skin. And he could smell the blood, sharp and tangy, iron in the air around him, filling his senses, his vision going red as he shouted. 

The curtain was tugged back to reveal Archerâ€™s concerned face. â€œShouldnâ€™t you sedate him?â€

Malcolm fought to catch his breath, and he kept his eyes on Archer as Phlox replied, â€œIâ€™m not sure how it will react with his medications.â€

Just beyond the captain, Malcolm caught a glimpse of the alien standing there, its dark, impassive eyes watching. Always watching. â€œWhat do you want?â€ he yelled. He redoubled his struggles, feeling a sharp pain at his wrists as he twisted them desperately. 

Phlox raised his voice to be heard over the shouts. â€œNo choice. If he crashes, weâ€™ll deal with that as it comes.â€

Archer barked sharply, â€œDo it.â€

There was movement around him, something changed, and he felt himself sliding away. He tried to care. He wanted to struggle. He couldnâ€™t. He turned his head to the ceiling and stared at the light above him, watching as it haloed out in concentric circles, his lids getting heavier as he caught the last bit of what Phlox was saying.

â€œâ€¦should keep him out until morning.â€

He let his eyes drift shut as Archer replied, â€œIâ€™ll post a guard outside.â€

And that was fine. He didnâ€™t need to get outside. All he needed was right here in the room with him. 

x-x

Malcolm woke. Time had passed. His breath caught and he held himself still, listening for movement or voices around him. Nothing. Nothing. Just the usual sounds of sickbay at rest. Whirr, hiss, go the monitors. Buzz, flutter goes Phloxâ€™s bat. The pound of his pulse in his ears; his breath, whisper quiet as he inhaled. 

He was drifting, so he clenched his hands into fists, trying to remain focused. He could feel the sedatives trying to drag him back into the darkness. He couldnâ€™t let them. The alien could be right there in sickbay with him. He had to stay awake. 

He opened his eyes slightly, then fully when he saw that no one was there. The room was dim around him, and the curtain had been drawn around his bed, blocking his view of the rest of the space. He twisted his wrists and found theyâ€™d been bandaged, the cloth softening the edges of the restraints. But. But. If. If he couldâ€¦ If heâ€¦ He slowed his movements, focusing his effort and will on his wrists as he twisted them. If he could get the bandages to fray and open his wounds again, he could use the slickness of the blood to help him slip out. Slow and steady. Patience would serve. He ground his wrists against the restraints, ignoring the signals of pain, trying to keep the movements small, keep his breathing slow and even so as not to set off the monitors and call attention to what he was doing. One of the things heâ€™d learnt in the not-so-distant past was to free himself from restraints, and heâ€™d actually become rather good at it. Found heâ€™d enjoyed the challenge, and that setting aside physical pain in that way could almost be meditative. Put aside the needs of the body for the greater goal. Or, as Trip might say, eyes on the prize. His heart skipped a beat, thinking about Trip. Something was there, tickling the edges of his memory. He shrugged it off, redoubling his efforts, smiling as he felt the gauze on his left wrist begin to fray. If Phlox had known about the type of training heâ€™d received, heâ€™d obviously have used better equipment. Ah, but that part of his past was classified. Dead. Buried. The edge of the restraint cut into his skin and he focused on that, on using the pain, funnelling it as it increased. Moving that one wrist. Finally, his skin was slick enough, his hand numb enough that he compressed and slid it out. 

Fast, now. Before he was discovered. Fumbling fingers, hard to move, heâ€™d done some damage, likely, but it wasnâ€™t important. He could deal with that later. He reached over his stomach and undid the latch that released his other hand. 

He sat up carefully, slowly, so silent. Shhâ€¦ He used his good hand to undo his legs. He let them fall over the edge of the bed and he sat there a moment, head down, trying to find equilibrium. The sedative was a strong one, and he could feel it trying to take him as his eyes dropped shut. He sat there, breathing into the moment. Pain was radiating up through his arms, so he focused on that and dragged his eyes open. Ragged remnants of bandages wrapped his wrists, and there was blood flowing freely from his left hand, dripping down the curve of his fingers, disappearing into the distance as it fell.

He raised his head and the room swam around him. Sliding off the mattress, he let his feet fall to the floor, trusting that theyâ€™d hit their mark, as he couldnâ€™t tell if the floor was really there. It was. He took a step toward the curtain, but the tug of the IV and monitoring lines in his arm brought him back to the bed, so he wrapped the arm of his bad hand around the pole and dragged it with him. Two steps brought him to the curtain, and he stepped through, careful not to move it too much lest it screech and give him away. 

He could hear voices, now. Two, both male: the medics, Ensigns Oâ€™Neill and Ramjattan. Not close, though. In the supply room, or perhaps Phloxâ€™s office. But not close. Quickly. He had to work quickly. 

He stood there a moment, swaying on his feet. He was finally here, and he hadnâ€™t thought of what heâ€™d do next. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Phlox kept scalpels and things of that sort in a locked drawer just there, only steps away, surely he couldâ€¦

A stumbling movement brought him to the cabinet, and with the hand heâ€™d not damaged in his escape, he fiddled with its lock and opened it â€“ another handy skill â€“ and stared down at its contents. Head swimming now, he was having trouble making them out, so he grabbed something blindly, cutting his fingers on its edge. Didnâ€™t matter what it was. It was sharp, and that was all that mattered. 

He didnâ€™t think the alien was in sickbay at this moment. He wasnâ€™t sure how he knew, just that he did. But it wouldnâ€™t be long. That bloody thing had shown up before. It would again. He needed to be ready. But he had to sit down. Now. His legs folded beneath him and he slumped to the floor, his back to the cabinet so he was facing the door. All right. He might not be able to make a pre-emptive strike, but he could defend himself if the thing came after him. 

Eyelids drooping, he realised the sedative was going to overcome him if he didnâ€™t do something, anything to keep himself on point. Something. He shivered, suddenly realising that he was cold. Stupid sickbay clothing, more token than anything. 

He wasnâ€™t sure how much time had passed when he heard the door open and someone, from across the room, said, â€œMalcolm?â€

His head shot up, weapon out and ready. 

â€œMalcolm, what are you doing?â€ 

It was Tripâ€™s voice.

Heart beating madly, eyes wide in shock and confusion, Malcolm frowned and the scene shifted and snapped into focus. Trip was standing in the doorway, bruises on his face, a cut on his lip where heâ€™dâ€¦ where Malcolm had hit him, and he remembered in a rush, head clearing as if the confusion had never been there. The tour of the archeological site. The buildings. Being fine until theyâ€™d returned to ship, and then, and thenâ€¦

He hissed in a breath and closed his eyes against the memories. â€œIâ€¦ I had to, to be sure, I wasnâ€™tâ€¦ If it came back, Iâ€¦â€ Malcolm suspected he was rambling and his words werenâ€™t making sense, but he was unable to stop. â€œAfterâ€¦ the room was soâ€¦and the basin, the building, the words were everywhere, itâ€¦â€ 

â€œMalcolm, itâ€™s all right. Iâ€™m going to call for help. Justâ€¦ put down the knife,â€ Trip said, his voice gentle. 

Malcolmâ€™s hand shook. He lowered his eyes to the handle clenched in his fist, willing his fingers to open. There was blood along the edge of the blade, smeared on both the handle and on the hand holding it. He heard Trip speaking to someone â€“ likely the medics had heard his voice, and had entered the room. 

The scene swam out of focus and he looked up as â€“ God, the alien was there, right beside him, and he panicked. He tried to scramble back but the cabinet trapped him there, and so quick, it was on him, then in him, it was in him! And he realised what he needed to do. The only way to protect the ship, his crewmates, and Trip. And so he slashed, trying to do damage, not caring if it hurt, but something grabbed his hand before he could make contact and there were shouts, activity all around him and the knife was gone, and there were hands on him, and he struggled, eyes frantically searching out the knife, because he needed it, how could they not see that thing was in him? And he couldnâ€™t breathe, pressure in his chest, the taste of blood on his tongue as head rushing everything was so loud, too bright, too much. 

Tripâ€™s voice, calling to him, calling his name as he felt himself come loose and break apart. 

x-x

Trip turned away as the medics restrained his friend. He couldnâ€™t watch. He couldnâ€™t listen. He couldnâ€™t stay there. He rushed through the door and started walking the corridors, not caring where he ended up.

Malcolm had been babbling incoherent nonsense. Heâ€™d been covered in blood. Heâ€™d been crouched on the floor. How hadâ€¦? Whyâ€¦? What had Phlox been doing, leaving Malcolm alone like that? Although Malcolm had been restrained, and knowing Phloxâ€™s work, it had been done well, and the medics had obviously been quite close by. So, not the doctorâ€™s fault. 

Howâ€™d Malcolm gotten out, anyway? The Doc probably hadnâ€™t been expecting that. And sickbay certainly was not set up for anyone whoâ€¦ who was like Malcolm. The brig would probably work better. But the brig was certainly no place for anyone who was sick. But Malcolm clearly needed, God, heâ€™d hurt himself, and it had almost been worse, so much worse. If Ramjattan hadnâ€™t seen what heâ€™d been about to do and grabbed his arm, it could have been so much worse. 

Trip stopped in his tracks. Malcolm obviously needed more care than they could provide here. Maybe a mental health facility back home, someplace secure, was really not such a bad idea. At least theyâ€™d be able to protect him from himself. 

Normally, if the situation were short-term, Starfleet Mental Health would deal with it. But if it was long termâ€¦ He knew that Malcolm wasnâ€™t on the best terms with his family, but still, he might need to be closer to home than the Starfleet facilities in San Francisco. If he got treatment and he stabilized, he might be able to leave the hospital, but he would need a support system so that things didnâ€™t crash back in on him. Heâ€™d need his family. 

Trip knew the dangers of this disease, from his aunt. Even with family all around, there had been times when sheâ€™d gone off. He remembered one time sheâ€™d stopped taking her meds, and ended up driving from Florida to Pennsylvania in search of some ashram. By the time sheâ€™d reached Pennsylvania, she was driving only 30 miles per hour up the high-speed lane of the interstate, with a line of police in tow. Luckily, once theyâ€™d gotten her stopped, theyâ€™d realised she wasnâ€™t okay. Theyâ€™d recognised that she was ill, rather than something else, and treated her as such. Still, his mum had needed to fly up to Pennsylvania to drive her sisterâ€™s vehicle home, deal with getting her into treatment, then deal with her home and job in Florida. After a while, his aunt had returned home, started working again, and settled back into her life. But if his mother hadnâ€™t been there to help? He couldnâ€™t imagine what his auntâ€™s life would be like if she didnâ€™t have such a support system around her. 

He didnâ€™t think the captain had told Malcolmâ€™s parents yet. Maybe it was time. 

x-x

Malcolm woke and immediately wanted to flee into the darkness again. He could, too, he could feel the pull of the drugs, and the temptation was there to let go, swim away on the currents and not come back. Not even try to come back. He had tried. Heâ€™d taken the drugs. He hadnâ€™t wanted to see what he had. Heâ€™d tried to ignore it. Heâ€™d tried. 

Shifting slightly on the bed, he felt the tug of restraints and hissed out a sharp breath as they hit his wrists. It wasnâ€™t exactly painful â€“ he was too drugged up for that â€“ but it was uncomfortable. 

There was movement nearby and his eyes flashed open. Blue walls, a small room. He wasnâ€™t in sickbay. Where was he? 

Phlox stood over him, gaze sharp. â€œLieutenant, are you with us?â€ he asked, motioning offstage for someone to come closer. A medic stepped in, checking his restraints. 

â€œWhere am I?â€

â€œThe isolation room, just off sickbay,â€ Phlox answered, eyes on the monitors that were part of the wall.

â€œDecon?â€ Malcolm asked. â€œWhy?â€

â€œYouâ€™d become violent. We needed to put you someplace more secure.â€

Malcolm frowned. Theyâ€™d put him here for protection, but for him or for those around him, he wasnâ€™t certain.

Phlox flashed a light in his eyes, and Malcolm winced and turned toward the wall. As Phlox said something which he missed, his eyes caught on the pattern in the surface before him. Heâ€™d never really noticed it before. It wasnâ€™t smooth, as on first appearance. It was actually made up of a series ofâ€¦

The doctorâ€™s voice interrupted his reverie. â€œMr. Reed? Are you still with us?â€

â€œYes,â€ Malcolm answered, still staring at the wall. 

â€œDo you remember what happened?â€

Malcolm turned his head and stared up at Phlox. He did remember, all too well. He could remember it all, but it wasnâ€™t linear. Shards of memory like broken pieces of a mirror that had been spilled on the ground and then mixed together, images reflecting this bit of sky, that tree. Scenes flew through his mind, superimposed upon each other, reflected back at him: the alien and Trip, and the alienâ€™s face, and the alien inside him, all slick and slithery, filling him, and was it still there now? He felt panic rising in him with the uncertainty.

â€œDonâ€™t struggle,â€ Phlox said. â€œYouâ€™ve been restrained.â€

â€œWhy?â€ Malcolm asked, although he knew why. 

â€œYou were hallucinating, and you did some damage to yourself.â€

Malcolm knew that, and it wasnâ€™t important. Other things were more important. â€œTrip?â€ he asked.

â€œHeâ€™s fine,â€ Phlox said, turning to the medic beside him and accepting the padd the man offered. 

â€œIs it still in me?â€ Malcolm asked. 

Phloxâ€™s gaze connected with that of the medic before it moved back to Malcolm. â€œIt?â€

Malcolm closed his eyes, not bothering to continue. The doctor didnâ€™t understand. He couldnâ€™t. But maybe Trip could. The alien had been there in sickbay and Trip must have seen it. Perhaps Trip could tell him how to know if it had gone. 

â€œCan I see Trip?â€

â€œWeâ€™re not allowing visitors right now.â€

â€œWhy not?â€ Malcolm said, opening his eyes. 

Phlox had been entering something into the padd, but he looked up at Malcolmâ€™s question. â€œWe need to get you stabilised first.â€

â€œI need to see him,â€ Malcolm added, a hint of desperation entering his tone.

Phlox placed a quick hand on his arm. â€œPerhaps tomorrow.â€

â€œPerhaps,â€ Malcolm echoed. â€œPerhaps, perhaps.â€ Perhaps heâ€™d see Trip tomorrow. Perhaps heâ€™d get better if he took his medications. Perhaps the alien was in him. Perhapsâ€¦ maybe all this was in his head, because none of this made sense.

But heâ€™d do what they said. He was a good boy, a good officer, did his duty, followed orders. Heâ€™d take his meds. Heâ€™d stay in decon. Heâ€™d answer their questions, make up what they wanted to hear, anything. If it meant that heâ€™d be well again. If it meant that the alien would be gone, and Enterprise would be safe. His friends would be safe. Heâ€™d do whatever they wanted. 

x-x

Malcolm on the bed with his legs crossed beneath him, staring down at his hands, which were sitting loosely in his lap. The only signs that heâ€™d ever been restrained were the red welts at his wrists, poking out beyond the bandages. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, hissing against the pull where Phlox had repaired the cut to his palm. He didnâ€™t even try his left, which was still braced and wrapped. Gingerly, he raised his arms to the side, and then up toward the ceiling, lifting his head as he did so. It didnâ€™t seem like a lot, but it was wonderfully freeing to be able to move even this much, after having been restrained. His eyes moved to the door. He might have been granted that small freedom, but he was still trapped in here. 

He knew the ship wasnâ€™t actually equipped to deal with this. He, of all people, certainly understood the need to keep his movements controlled; something that was not possible in sickbay proper. All things considered, decon was not so bad. It could be worse. He could still be strapped to a bed. He could be in the brig. Heâ€™d certainly have put himself there. He supposed heâ€™d have to thank the captain for allowing him this measure of freedom, onceâ€¦ if all thisâ€¦ once he was well. 

Malcolm fiddled with the bandages on his braced hand, worrying their edges with his fingers. The idea that this, whatever this was, might be something heâ€™d have to deal with throughout his life; that frightened him. Terrified him, if he was being entirely honest. His fingers unravelled a bit of the bandage, and he smoothed it down nervously. He didnâ€™t want to think about it. At the moment, he had quite enough to deal with without having to think beyond today. And today, he feltâ€¦ He shrugged despite the fact that there was no one there to see. He felt all right. No, that wasnâ€™t right. Notâ€¦ Not himself, not entirely, but notâ€¦ God, at least he wasnâ€™tâ€¦ Anyway, temporary respite or not, he was glad for it. Theyâ€™d changed his meds, and they were making him feel a bit odd, and his mind was racing a mile a minute and he couldnâ€™t stop it, but at least he hadnâ€™t had another hallucination, and the voices seemed to have stopped. And, according to Phlox, he was more in touch with the reality around him. His lips pursed. Even if that reality was a tiny room off sickbay proper. 

He slid forward on the bed â€“ what was actually a bench â€“ and placed his stocking feet on the floor. He stood slowly, keeping his arm pressed against the wall beside him, and took an unsteady step. At least the room was being kept warm. He was wearing nothing but sickbay garb, and other than the fixtures, there was little else in the small space, not even sheets. He smiled, suddenly realising why. 

He walked the length of the room, taking each step deliberately. One foot, then the next. Nothing natural about it. Step. Step. Strange, to have to consciously think about how to walk. But he was afraid that if he didnâ€™t, heâ€™d forget how, and what? Fall over? Float away? He felt shaky, as if heâ€™d had far too much caffeine, but under it all, he was tired â€“ tired of how he was feeling, tired of being confined, tired of being ill, of fighting, of being alone. 

Still, being by himself was probably for the best. He wasnâ€™t sure heâ€™d be able to keep himself together if he was on public display. As it was, the captain had been by earlier, and their conversation, if you could call it that, had pretty much been limited to Archer asking him questions, and his answering shrugs. Honestly, he just couldnâ€™t be bothered. He hadnâ€™t the energy. His lip quirked thinking of that visit; if there were to be more, heâ€™d need to expand his repertoire of belligerent, sullen teenage responses.

Returning to the bench, he sat with his legs pulled up in front of him, arms around them. After a moment, he could feel himself rocking slightly, but he let it go, because he knew he probably couldnâ€™t stop, and it would be better if he didnâ€™t try. 

He didnâ€™t like this â€“ being out of control, not being sure if what he was seeing was real or something else. Theyâ€™d told him he was ill; that he was, in effect, mad. Insanity seemed as good an explanation as any, but knowing he was mad wasnâ€™t particularly helpful, as it didnâ€™t make the crazy things stop happening. Heâ€™d really rather they stop happening, whatever their cause. 

He heard someone enter the chamber beyond the decon cell, then a loud â€œsnickâ€ as the window to his room opened. 

â€œHey, Malcolm.â€

At Tripâ€™s voice, Malcolm turned his head to the right. â€œCommander,â€ he said in greeting, keeping it formal. He almost laughed at that thought. After all, how formally could he be coming across at the moment? He tried to smother his grin. 

Trip was in uniform, and there was a smudge of dark oil on one shoulder, so he was likely coming from his duty shift. His face was serious, his eyes shuttered as he asked, â€œHow are you feeling?â€ his voice only slightly distorted by the clear partition between them.

Malcolm shrugged, unsure of what to say. It was a bit of a loaded question, that. He feltâ€¦ He feltâ€¦ He felt a lot of things. He wasnâ€™t sure of how to answer. 

Trip settled onto the tall stool Phlox had pulled up for visitors. â€œIâ€™d stopped by yesterday,â€ he said, expression showing his discomfort. â€œYou werenâ€™t really yourself.â€

Malcolm tilted his head to the side, acknowledging the point. Trip was likely right. He himself couldnâ€™t really remember, not all of it. Theyâ€™d been playing cards â€“ that had to be several days ago, now. After that, his memory; it was as if it had large holes in it, blanks where he knew heâ€™d been awake, and yet couldnâ€™t recall what heâ€™d been doing. 

â€œPhlox said youâ€™re feeling better now.â€ Trip didnâ€™t sound entirely convinced. 

â€œNo sheets,â€ Malcolm said with a slight laugh.

Tripâ€™s brow wrinkled in confusion. â€œExcuse me?â€

Malcolm glanced down at the bench below him. â€œThey left me without sheets, fearing I might hurt myself.â€ He looked over at Trip again. â€œThey think thatâ€™s what I was trying, but I wasnâ€™t.â€ He hugged his legs tighter. â€œI donâ€™t think they believe Iâ€™m entirely well.â€

Trip nodded slowly. Obviously, he didnâ€™t, either. 

They fell into silence and Malcolm laid his arms across his knees, resting his chin there. After a while, he let his eyes fall shut. He wasnâ€™t well, not at all, and he knew that, or thought he did, but, â€œI remember being well not that long ago,â€ he said aloud, giving voice to his thoughts. â€œSo what has changed? Which particular foreign god have I angered, or alien device have I touched, or strange food have I eaten, orâ€¦?â€ He sighed. 

Trip tried to interject with, â€œPhlox said â€“â€

Malcolm ran right over him, his voice low enough to be nearly inaudible. â€œIt canâ€™t have been long ago. The voices only started after that mission, didnâ€™t they? Or maybe theyâ€™d been there all along, and Iâ€™d not realised. Maybe it took being in that room, or touching the basin, or breathing the air, or seeing the writing, to finally get me to really listen?â€ 

Eyes still closed, Malcolm had nearly drifted off when he was startled by Tripâ€™s voice. 

â€œAre you still hallucinating?â€

Before he could stop himself, he answered, â€œI wouldnâ€™t know, would I?â€ his words sharp. He heard Trip hiss in a breath, and he opened his eyes. â€œSorry,â€ he murmured, staring at the opposite wall rather than at his friend. â€œI suppose I did know, in a way. Or do, when it happens. But the hallucinations felt so real, it was impossible not to react.â€ He turned his body to fully face Trip, legs dangling off the bench, hands clenching its frame as he stared through the partition. Their eyes met, and Malcolm could tell that this entire situation had Trip on edge, although on the surface he was hiding it fairly well. The dark circles under his eyes, the hands he held tightly clenched in his lap; it was the small details gave him away. 

Malcolm leaned forward. â€œIâ€™d like to ask you something. It may seem strange.â€ Trip raised an eyebrow as if to say heâ€™d seen some fairly odd things from Malcolm lately, and Malcolmâ€™s lip went up in response. â€œSorry. At least right now I know itâ€™s strange.â€ 

Trip nodded. â€œAsk away.â€

Malcolm steeled himself, and said, â€œIâ€™d thought there was an alien.â€

Trip nodded again. â€œI know that.â€

â€œIt was right beside you. But thatâ€™s not right, yes? You didnâ€™t feel or see anything.â€ 

Trip shook his head, back straightening. â€œNo.â€

â€œThen the alien moved into me, and Iâ€™m not, or, I wasnâ€™tâ€¦â€ Malcolm shook his head as he tore his eyes away, heart beating painfully in his chest. When he returned his gaze to meet Tripâ€™s, his friendâ€™s eyes were wary. â€œHow do I know itâ€™s not in me now?â€

â€œMalcolmâ€¦â€ Trip said hesitantly.

Malcolm stood and went to the window between them, placing one hand against its surface. â€œI still donâ€™t feel right. How do I know if itâ€™s the illnessâ€¦â€ he pressed his palm hard against his forehead, â€œâ€¦or if the alien isnâ€™t still â€“â€

â€œThere is no alien,â€ Trip interrupted firmly, hands clenched into fists. 

â€œRight,â€ Malcolm said, wiping a hand over his face. He pounded that hand softly against the partition, then pushed away. â€œSorry. Iâ€™m still having a hard time.â€ He sighed, consciously relaxing his shoulders, and said what he knew Trip needed to hear. â€œI know itâ€™s not real.â€ He tried for a smile. â€œI sometimes get confused. Sorry.â€

â€œHopefully, thatâ€™ll pass.â€

â€œGod, I do hope so,â€ Malcolm said with genuine emotion. â€œI donâ€™t like this.â€

â€œYeah,â€ Trip replied. â€œWe want you to come back to us, Malcolm.â€

At this, Malcolm did smile. â€œIâ€™m working on it.â€

â€œI know,â€ Trip said, voice soft. 

Malcolm turned and paced the length of the room. â€œWhen do you think Phlox might let me out of here? Iâ€™m not, I wonâ€™t â€“â€ He faced Trip again, coming right up against the partition. â€œIâ€™m so bloody sorry, Trip. I didnâ€™t mean toâ€¦ Ah, bugger,â€ he murmured as he felt the tears come despite his best efforts to control himself. Ah, no. Not this, not now.

â€œI know,â€ Trip repeated, leaning forward and placing a hand, palm flat, against the glass. 

â€œSorry, Iâ€™m sorry,â€ Malcolm said quickly, hand shielding his eyes. He was trying hard to stop. He hated crying, never did it. Now that heâ€™d started, he wasnâ€™t entirely sure how to stop. 

Giving up, he sank onto the bench. Heâ€™d nothing to look forward to but days and days of this, of being in here alone with nothing to do but think. Introspection was not always a positive. He felt as if he was wobbling on the edge of sanity and something else, and he really, really didnâ€™t want to know that something else. If he thought about it too hard, or got too close, he might tumble over. He didnâ€™t know if heâ€™d make it out. He didnâ€™t even know how to try.

He only realised heâ€™d said that last aloud when Trip responded. 

â€œWhat do you mean?â€ Trip asked gently. 

â€œI meanâ€¦ I donâ€™tâ€¦â€ He turned to Trip. â€œItâ€™s as if my world came crashing down on me, crushing me beneath the rubble, and I canâ€™tâ€¦â€ He let his voice fade off, unsure of how to finish. He huffed a small, mirthless laugh. 

Tripâ€™s voice finally broke the silence. â€œYou have to.â€

â€œI donâ€™t know that I can.â€ Malcolm looked away. He felt beaten down, broken. The very thought of gathering together the energy to fight this thing was beyond his abilities. 

â€œThatâ€™s the illness â€“â€

Malcolm waved a hand, dismissing that. â€œI know. Maybe. I donâ€™t know.â€

The crackle of the speaker interrupted them. â€œTwo minutes more, Commander.â€ That was Phloxâ€™s voice. 

Malcolm heard Trip slide off the stool. â€œIâ€™m here for you, you know that, right?â€

Malcolm nodded, still not looking at his friend. 

â€œSee you tomorrow.â€

Malcolm heard the window slide shut, and he curled up on the bench, staring off into space and trying not to think. Not of the end of his career, his life, everything heâ€™d built for himself. Not of being trapped in here. Not of the alien that was or was not inside him. Not of what his family would think. Not of what heâ€™d done to his crewmates, the things heâ€™d put them through. Not of what heâ€™d done to Trip. 

Trip had become the closest thing to a friend he had on board. Maybe the closest thing he had to a friend, full stop.

He wanted this to stop. It had to stop. Heâ€™d rather die. Heâ€™d much prefer to die than to live with his head like this. With his life like this. With the hurt. With the pain heâ€™d end up putting his family through. His friends. Heâ€™d ratherâ€¦

â€œDonâ€™t think,â€ he murmured, almost whispering the words. â€œDonâ€™t think. Donâ€™t. Think. Donâ€™t.â€

x-x 

Trip leaned back against the wall with his eyes shut, trying to get his shit together before he left sickbay and had to face the world. It was upsetting to see Malcolm like that. More than upsetting. When heâ€™d arrived, the man had been rocking on the bed, eyes red rimmed and wild. During their conversation, it was like heâ€™d be talking normal one second, then be completely off the next. And the crying was completely unlike him. Trip knew it was related to the illness, but still, it was not good to see it. 

And yet it was a significant improvement over the last several days. Phlox hadnâ€™t even allowed visitors at first, not until heâ€™d gotten Malcolm somewhat stabilized. Then it had been a day-to-day, almost hour-to-hour thing. Today was really the first day that Malcolm had seemed â€“ well, not normal, but at least lucid. 

Phlox had Malcolm on a series of medications, but Trip suspected that the drugs werenâ€™t making Malcolm better, not really, because he was obviously far from better. Still, there was a chance for real treatment soon. Enterprise was leaving this system tonight. They were due on Vulcan in a few weeks and theyâ€™d be passing Earth on the way. 

It was hard to believe. Less than thirty days, and Malcolm would be gone. Likely, heâ€™d never return to active service, never mind to Enterprise. Theyâ€™d drop him off and thatâ€™d be that. â€œShit,â€ Trip whispered, pounding his fist into the bulkhead behind him. He didnâ€™t want to think about it. 

He left sickbay without a backward glance.

x-x

Trip threw his covers aside in frustration, sitting up in bed and slamming his hand against the light controls, giving up on sleep just like heâ€™d given up on â€“

â€œNo,â€ he said aloud, voice ringing out in the dark room. â€œNo,â€ he said again, softer this time. He wouldnâ€™t give up. He couldnâ€™t. Heâ€™d been trying not to think about it, knowing that he was just wasting his time. He wasnâ€™t a doctor, he was an engineer, and he was spinning his wheels on this one, and he knew it. But he couldnâ€™t help but think about it, and if he didnâ€™t find some outlet for all thatâ€¦ that THINKING, heâ€™d be the one who ended up in the loony bin, not Malcolm. 

â€œOuch,â€ he said, wincing. That hadnâ€™t been a nice thought. Then he huffed a soft laugh, because sure, it wasnâ€™t nice, but it also wasnâ€™t all that far from the truth. 

He gave in and ran through the whole situation one more time, falling back on his pillow as he did so. Heâ€™d been through it already with Phlox, with Jon, hell, heâ€™d been over it so often it was part of his dreams, and in the end, he was no closer to an answer than he was when heâ€™d begun. He couldnâ€™t solve this one, he could barely even get his arms around what had happened. The whole thing still made no sense. Freekinâ€™ medical mumbo-jumbo. He laughed aloud. Too bad Malcolm wasnâ€™t a warp engine; heâ€™d have the man fixed, lickedy split. 

Maybe he wasnâ€™t a doctor, but he was enough of a scientist to know that this whole thing stank. Something wasnâ€™t right. He knew mental illness could seem to come out of nowhere, but honestly, this really *had* come from nowhere, hadnâ€™t it? Heâ€™d spent all that time with Malcolm on Shuttlepod One not that long ago. Wouldnâ€™t he have noticed something? Even if he hadnâ€™t, surely heâ€™d gotten to know Malcolm enough during their long hours trapped together on that tiny ship that he would have noticed if Malcolm had developed any quirks after, wouldnâ€™t he? And it had been just more than a year, year-and-a-half ago that theyâ€™d all gone through the normal mental health screening that Starfleet required before any long-term mission. Wouldnâ€™t that, at least, have picked something up?

Trip tucked his hands under his head, staring up at the ceiling, unseeing. It didnâ€™t seem right, but what in the world could he do, realistically? Nothing. All the years heâ€™d spent in engineering, and he was supposed to be so damn smart, but here he was, less than useless. 

Or was he? No, he was not a doctor, but he was a damn good engineer. Why not go with his strengths? A big part of engineering was the analysis, maybe he should just forget all the medical shit and take it as an engineering problem. Flowchart out the problem or something, see what came out of that. Why the hell not? 

Why not? Because Malcolm was a person, not a machine, or a process, or a computer program. 

Trip flipped over onto his stomach, arms tucked under his pillow. Maybe he should try it anyway. After all, he had a few weeks before theyâ€™d be at Vulcan, and in reality, thereâ€™d be no loss if nothing came of it. 

No loss except Malcolm.

Trip grimaced in disgust and flicked off the light.

x-x

Trip stood back and took in the scope of the thing before him. His wall was plastered, floor to ceiling, in a flurry of bright yellow paper squares, each of them covered in a scrawl of dark writing. Heâ€™d spent all of yesterdayâ€™s off-duty time on this, skipping meals and eating in his quarters as he worked. Today was supposed to be his day off, and heâ€™d promised Travis theyâ€™d play some b-ball, but heâ€™d cancelled his plans and spent the day in here instead.

Stepping forward, he added several sticky notes to the mass, jotting quick annotations on each before taking others away â€“ those he crumpled and tossed, barely noticed, on the floor at his feet, his trash bin having overflowed long before. 

He thought he had a handle on it now. The solution was nowhere to be seen, but the core of the problem was there. He hoped. At least with all the particulars up there, he wouldnâ€™t have them floating around in his head, and he might be able to see his way past them to a solution. 

He reached up and, with a black permanent marker, drew a timeline along the top of the wall, over the papers. Jon would kill him if he knew how he was defacing his quarters, but he figured he could remove the ink with solvent later on, maybe, and yeah, he could have done this on his computer, but heâ€™d always found this sort of work easier to do hardcopy. The large size of the wall helped, as did the ability to see the physical objects and shift them around. And, perhaps most importantly, keeping it up there on his wall let him live with it. It was literally in his face at every free moment. He could be doing something completely unrelated â€“ like earlier, heâ€™d been brushing his teeth, gotten an idea, and, toothbrush in mouth, stuck another note up before the idea had even gone stale. It was hard to describe, but something about the physicality of working in this way helped. And anything that helped, that had to be good, right? Because the past week or so, Malcolm hadnâ€™t been so good, and they were running out of time.

Heâ€™d paid several visits to Malcolm since heâ€™d started on this project, each time hoping that heâ€™d be able to ask his friend some questions, maybe clarify some point, try to find details to support his work. And yeah, sometimes Malcolm had been lucid, but sometimesâ€¦ sometimes, not so much. It was like the drugs worked at certain times, but not others. Or, hell, maybe that was just how Malcolmâ€™s illness worked. Anyway, Phlox kept trying to switch it up, but it seemed like every time he did, the results, if any, would be temporary, and Malcolm would crash again. Sure, Phlox wasnâ€™t human, and he wasnâ€™t exactly a specialist in mental health issues, but he knew humans well, and he was a great doctor. If he wasnâ€™t able to help, not even kind of, what could Starfleet Medical do that would end up any different? 

Trip took a few steps backward and sat, hard, on his unmade bed. He let the marker and papers fall onto the bed beside him, and flexed his fingers, trying to work the stiffness out. Heâ€™d been at it a while. He stretched his neck and shoulders, and glanced at the clock on his nightstand. God, he only had three hours before he was supposed to go on shift again. Sleep now would be pointless. He might as well stay up and work on this. Yawning, he fell back onto his pillow, letting his mind run through the problem. 

As best he could tell, there were only two salient questions: why Malcolm, and why now? So far, he had answers to neither. So, heâ€™d tried to break it down, start at the beginning. Heâ€™d made a diagram of the problem, flowcharted the damn thing, placing every single detail up on his wall. Now he needed to think on it. 

Far as he knew, there was nothing in what little Reed family history he was privy to that indicated that anyone in Malcolmâ€™s family had schizophrenia or a related disease, although the Reeds, if they were anything like Malcolm, were probably so close-lipped there could be all sorts of skeletons and heâ€™d never know it. Likely Malcolm himself wouldnâ€™t know. 

So, heâ€™d have to assume the cause wasnâ€™t genetic. Environment, then? It couldnâ€™t have been something that Malcolm had encountered long-ago, because unless the man was masterful at the whole cover-up thing, his symptoms had come on fairly recently. Hadnâ€™t they? Admittedly, Malcolm was pretty good at keeping things to himself. Maybe he had been experiencing symptoms for some time. But somehow, Trip doubted it. Malcolm might be good at hiding things, but not this â€“ this was not a disease you could really control. And who knows, maybe you could be exposed to something forever ago, and not get sick until years later â€“ not until something else happened to trigger it. Assuming that was true, that trigger must have been something heâ€™d been exposed to recently. But pretty much everywhere Malcolm had been in the past year, heâ€™d been there too. Even down on the planet, just before all this startedâ€¦

Tripâ€™s alarm went off, startling him. He frowned at his chronometer, irritated that heâ€™d forgotten to shut off his automated alarm until he actually saw the time. His eyes widened and he sat up quickly, shoving his feet into his boots while he raked a quick hand through his hair. He must have fallen asleep. The stupid alarm must have been ringing for a while, because he had maybe five minutes to get to the bridge for the morning briefing. Worse, the captain had wanted him on hand early, because Jon would be occupied with his official goodbyes withâ€¦ Trip sighed loudly, running both hands across his faceâ€¦ Too late to shaveâ€¦ and of all the damn morningsâ€¦ Muttering a harsh curse, he stood quickly, heart racing. Thank God heâ€™d fallen asleep in his uniform. Although Tâ€™Pol, with her sensitive nose, might not be so thrilled â€“ heâ€™d probably been wearing the thing for a good thirty-six hours. And Jon, who knew him well, would likely know the instant he stepped on the bridge. Fabulous.

Trip dashed out of his room, nearly running in his haste to get to the bridge. Damn it, he thought as he moved. Not now! This day just kept getting better and better, and he was all of four minutes into it. He should have stopped and used the bathroom first. Now heâ€™d be stuck in an hour-long meeting, probably thinking of nothing but the fact that he had to pee. 

Trip stopped in his tracks, almost causing someone to crash into him from behind. 

Immediately before this started, theyâ€™d been in that bathroom building together. Then Malcolm had followed the captain to another building. Maybeâ€¦

No, if it had been something from that building, wouldnâ€™t it have affected Jon, too? Tripâ€™s breath caught. Theyâ€™d both been in the same building, but maybe theyâ€™d been in different rooms, or different sections of the same room? Maybe Malcolm had touched something that none of the rest of them had touched? 

He was probably clutching at straws, but what if? Trip wracked his brain, trying to remember everything, anything that Malcolm may have mentioned about his experience on that planet. 

He shook his head and started walking again. It probably meant nothing, but he was at such a loss that what the hell, at least he could ask about it. It might come to nothing, but god, what were his choices here?

Glancing at his chronometer, he picked up his pace. He might not be too late. For what he was about to do, Jon would probably figure he was the one who was nuts. And maybe he was.

He rushed onto the bridge just as Jon was saying his last, formal goodbyes to the locals. He could tell that he captain was just about to sign off, so he ignored the others on the bridge and stepped forward with an apologetic glance. â€œHold on, captain. Sorry.â€ He turned to the woman on the screen, nodded, then addressed the captain, who stood in the center of the bridge, seeming more than a bit surprised. â€œCan I speak with you for a minute?â€

Jon raised both brows. â€œCanâ€™t it wait?â€ he asked, seeming incredulous. 

Trip winced. â€œSorry, sir. No.â€

Jon turned to the screen, obviously ready to end their conversation. Trip touched him on the shoulder. In a low voice, which he was sure their â€œguestsâ€ could hear anyway, if they wanted to, he said, â€œActually, we may need them. Could you put them on hold?â€

Jon pursed his lips. â€œThis had better be good,â€ he murmured before he turned back to the screen with a smile. â€œIâ€™m sorry,â€ he said in is best diplomatic voice. â€œCould you hold on one moment?â€

The person on the screen nodded, and, at Jonâ€™s signal, the screen went blank. 

Trip didnâ€™t waste any time. â€œThat dig we were at; you and Malcolm went off while Hoshi, Travis and I stayed with the guide. Were you together the whole time?â€

â€œPretty much, yes.â€

Trip pressed the point. â€œLiterally, side to side, the entire time?â€

â€œNo,â€ Jon replied, brow wrinkling in annoyance. â€œOf course not.â€

â€œI need to find out more about that building. Could we ask them?â€ Trip asked, nodding toward the now-blank screen. 

â€œCan I ask why?â€ Jon countered, crossing his arms over his chest. 

â€œCan you hold off on that?â€ Trip asked with a frown. â€œIt may be nothing, butâ€¦â€ He grimaced. â€œIt could be nothing, but itâ€™s for Malcolm, and Iâ€¦â€ He lowered his voice. â€œI donâ€™t know, but I figured itâ€™s worth a shot.â€ If there was any connection at all to their visit to this planet, this was their last chance to discover it.

Jon looked at him carefully, and Trip realised that he was probably seeing more than Trip wanted him to see: the worry, the sleepless nights, the feelings of helplessness, of desperation. After a moment, Jon nodded crisply, and signalled for Hoshi to resume the transmission. When it did, he waved Trip forward. 

Trip stood before the screen, feeling more than a bit awkward. â€œMaâ€™am, Iâ€™m Commander Tucker. Sorry to interrupt, but I need to know more aboutâ€¦â€ He turned to Jon. â€œSorry, Captain. Which building was it?â€

â€œBuilding four.â€

Trip nodded and returned his eyes to the viewscreen. â€œFrom the site we visited.â€

The official looked unsure, her long, tapered ears dipping down as she thought. â€œIâ€™ve never been there myself. I could ask the person whoâ€™d led your party.â€

â€œAnd if you could, ask what its purpose was. Actually, send us up any information you have on it. Please,â€ he added belatedly, wincing inwardly at his lack of diplomacy.

â€œCertainly,â€ the official replied. Her eyes glinted, and Trip suddenly realised that she was purposefully ignoring his lack of decorum. â€œMay I ask why?â€

At this, Jon stepped forward and spoke. â€œOne of our crew has become ill. There may be a connection.â€

â€œYes?â€ the official said, cocking her head. â€œHow so?â€

â€œWeâ€™re not sure yet.â€ 

The official frowned, seeming to think this over. Then she nodded. â€œIâ€™ll send you any and all information we have on it.â€ She waved off-camera, and the screen went blank. 

Jon turned to Trip with a puzzled expression. 

â€œJust a shot in the dark, Captain.â€

At that, Hoshi spoke up from her bridge station. â€œWeâ€™ll only be in contact for another day or so.â€

Jon put a hand on Tripâ€™s shoulder. â€œHopefully, weâ€™ll have your answer before weâ€™re out of range.â€

x-x

Trip was in his quarters two days later when the data burst came through from the planet. There was information about each of the buildings theyâ€™d visited. With it was a note from their guide, linked to one specific document: 

â€œWhen I was told of your request,â€ Nar had written, â€œAnd your crewmateâ€™s illness, I felt you should see the attached materials. Iâ€™ve only recently begun translating them, and when I heard about the illness, I wondered if there might not be a connection.â€ 

Tripâ€™s heart skipped a beat, and he poured through the rest, amazed. No way. Excitement mounting, he repeated the thought aloud, â€œNo way!â€ Head thrown back, he let out a whoop of joy. 

x-x

Trip sat cross-legged on the stone floor directly in front of the basin. A flurry of papers and padds lay spread out before him, but his focus was on the information in the padd in his hand. 

â€œHereâ€™s another one,â€ Hoshi shot out from across the room, adjusting her padd so that it uploaded the pertinent information to his. Hoshi and Nar were working on translations in the light coming in from the doorway, and sheâ€™d been passing on everything that seemed even somewhat related to this room and the technologies that had been used in this location. Trip had been working across the room from them, trying to stay as far away as he could so he could minimize the distractions that came from their conversations. He needed to focus if he was going to puzzle this one out in the limited time they had. 

Surprisingly, it hadnâ€™t taken long to convince Jon to turn the ship around and return to this planet, despite the fact that it would probably make them late for their Vulcan meeting. Obviously, the issue with Malcolm had been bothering the captain as much as it had bothered Trip himself. 

Talking to Jon, Trip had felt so certain that what he was doing was right, but nowâ€¦ Sure, Nar had never came out and said that the place was a lab, so maybe Trip had stretched things a bit when heâ€™d talked to the captain. But heâ€™d been so damn sure of himself. Heâ€™d had a hunch, and it had always paid to follow his hunches, but now, down on the planet and hours into their mission, the almost overwhelming process of trying to find back up to his suspicions, plus the near-lie heâ€™d told Jon to get them down here, was beginning to weigh on him. In reality, Nar had simply given him enough information to ask the right questions. Now they had to find the answers, because if they could, they might be able to connect this place with whatever was happening to Malcolm, and if they could do that â€“ Trip stopped himself. He didnâ€™t want to think that far ahead. He had to focus. They didnâ€™t have much time. Jon had been able to give him only eight hours here, no more. Then, they would have to leave, or theyâ€™d miss their meeting entirely, and Trip didnâ€™t want to think about the consequences of that one. 

Still, eight hours better than nothing. At least it gave him a shot. At least it gave him some hope, where before heâ€™d felt very little. The answer, if there was one, had to be here, in this room. 

Paging through the documentation on his padd, Trip kept half an ear on what Hoshi and Nar were discussing. Theyâ€™d been taking Narâ€™s initial translations and refining them, as well as doing rough work on the texts that heâ€™d not yet translated. Trip, meanwhile, was bouncing between looking around the room, reading through the information that Hoshi was sending him, and poking through the tech specs for the shield that protected these buildings. 

Trip stood and, after taking a moment to stretch his back, joined Nar and Hoshi by the door. â€œHow long has this shield been in existence?â€ he asked Nar, squatting down beside the man. 

â€œIâ€™m not sure,â€ Nar replied, looking up from where he sat on the floor. â€œIt was put in well before my time. At least a hundred years.â€ 

â€œAnd it works byâ€¦?â€

â€œWell, Iâ€™m no engineer,â€ Nar said with a smile. â€œBut I know it prevents certain things from entering and touching the objects it protects â€“ bodily fluids, things like that. And yet it allows a certain amount of circulation of air and so on.â€ Nar shrugged an apology. 

Trip smiled. Nar had simply confirmed what he already knew, and what was reflected in Narâ€™s own documentation. The shield allowed particles of certain types to pass through, and prevented others from doing so. Whether it discriminated based on particle size or type or what have you, wasnâ€™t yet clear. 

Trip nodded his thanks, then stood and continued his investigation of the room. The information that Nar had sent to him on Enterprise had led him to believe that this room had once been some sort of lab, although what type, he had no idea. Thatâ€™s what had sparked his imagination. If it was a lab, maybe there was still something here, and maybe that something had, somehow, passed through their shield and hurt Malcolm, or made him sick. But if so, how was it was able to pass through their shield when so many other things could not, and why hadnâ€™t it affected anyone other than Malcolm? And why hadnâ€™t Phloxâ€™s tests picked up on anything? Even if his hunches were right, how could he prove any of this? 

As he crept around the periphery of the room, he kept his eyes on the surfaces before him, but continued listening to what Hoshi and Nar were saying. Heâ€™d just reached the basin again, and was about to sit amongst his things when he heard Hoshi murmur something about â€œparadlia,â€ a term he remembered from earlier. She thought it meant â€œobjects.â€ 

â€œMo dziejuje paradlie,â€ Nar said in response. â€œUltrafine things?

â€œNo, no,â€ Hoshi answered. â€œThe â€˜moâ€™ usually indicates something mechanical, right?â€

â€œUltrafine machines?â€ Nar replied. 

â€œWhat?â€ Trip asked, his head shooting up. He didnâ€™t even wait for their answer. Ultrafine machines â€“ that sounded a hell of a lot like nanotechnology to him. Maybe. Devices so small they could pass through skin. So small, they probably could pass through this shield. 

Nar addressed him. â€œThey appeared to have worked on them here, in this room.â€

â€œWhere?â€ Trip answered, his excitement building. 

â€œNarâ€™s head turned down, and he continued reading through his translations. â€œStation one, section four. Ermâ€¦â€ He looked up. â€œAbout where youâ€™re sitting, Commander.â€

Trip glanced at the area around him. It looked just like the rest of the building â€“ a series of stones, covered, floor to ceiling, in swirling text. The only thing special was the basin. Trip froze. Didnâ€™t Malcolm keep mentioning a basin? â€œDamn it,â€ he swore under his breath. The only thing Malcolm appeared to have touched, which none of the rest of them had, was this stupid basin. 

He turned to face Nar. â€œAny of your people ever touch this?â€ he asked, pointing at the basin. 

â€œSure, hundreds, probably,â€ Nar replied, voice echoing in the large space. â€œIâ€™ve touched it, myself.â€

â€œAnd no one experienced any problems?â€

â€œNothing,â€ Nar replied, frowning.

Trip knelt beside the basin, being very careful not to touch it. He could feel the eyes of the others on him. â€œWhat did they use it for?â€

â€œIt doesnâ€™t say,â€ Hoshi said. 

Trip traced the curve of the thing with his eyes. Maybe it was used as part of the manufacture of some sort of manufacturing tech. But why would that hurt Malcolm, but not the locals? More likely, it was some sort of weapon. That would make sense. After all, if it only affected strangers, and if, as Hoshi suspected, these people had been to Earth, then the fact that it affected humans made even more sense. Maybe. 

He needed to know more. 

Sensors wouldnâ€™t read through the field; heâ€™d already tried that. Maybe if he swabbed it? Trip opened his communicator. Speaking to the comm. officer on duty, he asked to be put through to Phlox. 

After a quick conversation with the doctor, from which Trip got the distinctive feeling that Phlox thought he was on a wild goose chase, Trip took a quick swab and transported it up. Other than the usual suspects that one might find in dirt, the results showed nothing. 

Maybe if he could shut off the shield for a few minutes, he could take a quick scan and swab it again? He glanced at his watch, realising that they were fast running out of time. â€œNar?â€ he shot out, staring up at the basin before him. â€œCan we turn off the shield for a few moments?â€

â€œIâ€™m sorry, Commander,â€ Nar replied. He sounded genuinely regretful. â€œItâ€™s not possible to switch it off without turning it off permanently, and if we do thatâ€¦â€ 

Trip shook his head, already knowing the answer. The objects here were far too delicate. If they turned off the shield, at least some of the stonework would likely crumble, and it just wasnâ€™t worth it based on some wild hunch thatâ€™d probably amount to nothing, anyway. 

Trip looked at his watch again. Their time was up. Without looking over at her, he spoke softly into the silence. â€œTime to pack it up, Hoshi.â€ 

She didnâ€™t reply, but he knew she understood. Theyâ€™d failed. All this work, and heâ€™d still come up with nothing. All he was left with was what he started with â€“ hunches and suppositions. Nothing concrete, no real evidence. A few phrases which he could interpret to mean nanotech, but which someone else could just as easily take to mean something entirely different. 

â€œShit,â€ Trip murmured under his breath. He sat on the floor, leaning back on his arms as he stared up at the basin. He still felt like the answer was here, but he had no way to prove it. He needed proof. Malcolm was depending on him. Trip exhaled loudly. There was only one thing he could think of to do. 

Trip glanced to where Hoshi and Nar were packing up their things. He stood slowly, trying not to attract their attention. Sure that no one was watching, Trip reached out a hand and brushed it against the side of the basin, then down into the bowl itself. 

Nothing. In a way, he was both disappointed and relieved. 

x-x 

â€œTrip.â€

Trip pulled his covers in closer, rolling onto his side. 

â€œTrip.â€

He jerked awake, then froze, listening. Someone had called his name. Hadnâ€™t they? When he heard nothing, he relaxed and let himself drift again. It was probably one of those normal near-sleep, almost-dream things, like the feeling of falling, orâ€¦

Wait. 

Whispers, nearby. He stilled himself, quieting his breathing. Definitely voices, murmuringâ€¦ he couldnâ€™t quite catch it. Something. 

Heart hammering in his chest, he sat up slowly, gaze tracking around his darkened room. He listened carefully. Sounds, nearly inaudible, but definitely there. Voices. 

Shit, shit, shit, he thought, feelings warring within himself. Dread. Fear. Elation. 

He clenched the blanket in his fists. He knew what had happened to Malcolm. Now he simply needed to learn how to shut it off. 

x-x

Trip sat at his desk, papers and padds strewn across its surface, the desk lamp creating an island of light in the dark room. The voices were still a mild buzz in the background, and once heâ€™d gotten over the strangeness of having them there, he was able to focus on his work. He knew he had no time to waste. Malcolmâ€™s disability had come on fast. Maybe Malcolmâ€™s hallucinations had started like this, but he wasnâ€™t sure â€“ Malcolm had seemed to ramp from zero to sixty in, like, thirty seconds flat. He wasnâ€™t sure if the progression would be the same for him, but heâ€™d best work under the assumption that his time was limited. 

He hadnâ€™t told Phlox yet. He knew the doc wouldnâ€™t approve of what heâ€™d done. Or Jon; God, Jon would rip him a new one. But he couldnâ€™t tell them, not yet, because if he did, theyâ€™d make him stop working, and neither he nor Malcolm could afford to have him stop. 

Heâ€™d give it until morning, or until things got worse. Then heâ€™d tell them. 

He moved on to the next padd, still looking for definite evidence that this thing, this illness, was actually caused by what he thought it was caused by. 

Jon was going to kill him.

The whispers got louder, or closer, maybe, and he thought, if he just stopped for a moment and listened, they might tell him what he needed to know. 

He shook his head, standing and walking to the bathroom. No, no. That was all he needed. He needed to keep his head clear. He neededâ€¦ He splashed water on his face, purposefully avoiding his reflection in the mirror over the sink. He needed to keep working. And he felt okay right now, right? At least he wasnâ€™t seeing anything. Not yet, anyway. 

Returning to his room, he started pacing, hoping the movement would help keep his thoughts on point. From his work with Hoshi and Nar, heâ€™d gone with his assumption that this thing was a device. Heâ€™d spent enough time trying to figure out what it was supposed to do. It didnâ€™t matter what it was supposed to do. He simply had to figure how to turn it off. Hadnâ€™t there been somethingâ€¦?

Sliding into his chair, he began pouring through the translated documents Hoshi had given to him. Heâ€™d thought heâ€™d read somethingâ€¦ There. Narâ€™s ancestors had turned it off. So what had turned it back on? It had to be drawing energy from something. Trip looked up at the sticky notes that covered the far wall. Standing, he went over to one section. Of course. The shield. It was the damn shield. When theyâ€™d turned that on, that had probably reactivated the devices, and now, the power from the shield was keeping them going. Maybe, once they got far enough away? No, they were light years away now. There was no way the devices were still feeding from the shield. So what ifâ€¦? What if they were drawing power from Enterprise, now? Or from Malcolmâ€™s own body? God, that had to be it. Phlox, he had to talk to the doctor. If that were the case, how could they turn the devices off without turning off Malcolm himself? Orâ€¦

Trip stood and hit the comm.

â€œDoc?â€ 

â€œYes,â€ came Phloxâ€™s bright voice. 

â€œCan you meet me up here?â€

â€œIs there an emergency?â€ Phlox asked, seeming concerned. 

â€œMore of a consultation. I need to ask you some questions.â€ 

â€œIâ€™ll be there in a quarter hour.â€

Trip returned to his desk and, head in hand, sat staring off into space. Heâ€™d tell Phlox his theory. Heâ€™d tell him how he thought the nano-devices could be deactivated. Then heâ€™d tell himâ€¦ Oh, this wasnâ€™t going to be pretty. And please, God, let him be right about this. Let this work. 

Theyâ€™d fix Malcolm. Then, maybe, theyâ€™d fix him. And heâ€™d swear Phlox and Jon to secrecy. They couldnâ€™t tell Malcolm what heâ€™d done. There was no need for the man to have that on his head as well as everything else. Later, maybe, heâ€™d tell Malcolm, once his friend was well, once heâ€™d had time to get readjusted. Until then, this was the best he could do. 

His actions wouldnâ€™t be without cost, but the risk had been worth taking. Heâ€™d been right. Thank God. Please, God. Let him be right. 

x-x

Trip braced himself, and then slid the windowâ€™s cover open, revealing the small decon chamber beyond. Malcolm was sitting on the bench, arms wrapped tightly around his shins as he stared off into space. His mouth was moving in a silent conversation, fingers twitching occasionally as he spoke silence at whatever vision had him trapped.

His plan was risky, for all concerned. If it didnâ€™t work, both he and Malcolm would be sick. Hell, the treatment itself was risky. Phlox was very good at his job, but there was always that chance that Malcolm wouldnâ€™t come back, or heâ€™d come back changed. Still, he knew Malcolm would want him to try. That conviction, probably more than anything else, had been what had convinced the captain to agree to the plan. 

God, the look on Jonâ€™s face when heâ€™d told him what heâ€™d done. The poor man had looked torn between being royally pissed and desperately worried. Trip was just grateful there hadnâ€™t been anything heavy around, because Jon would probably have thrown it at him.

Trip watched Malcolm from behind the clear divider. Heâ€™d tried to get Phlox to let him into the room with Malcolm â€“ heâ€™d have rather delivered this news in a more personal manner than from behind a partition â€“ but the doctor had refused, saying, â€œthe patient is still unstable.â€ Phlox had said that the meds were helping, but that clearly didnâ€™t mean Malcolm was okay. Not really. Today was obviously not a good day. Phlox had warned him of that fact, and had told him not to expect much. But still, he felt like he had to try. 

â€œMalcolm,â€ he said, keeping his voice gentle and quiet. When his friend didnâ€™t respond â€“ didnâ€™t even stir â€“ he murmured a soft swear, then went on. â€œIâ€™m not sure if you can hear me, but I have some news, and I wanted to tell you in person.â€

He sighed, shifting uncomfortably on the chair. He wasnâ€™t quite sure how to begin. But, figuring that Malcolm probably wasnâ€™t hearing him anyway, he decided to just start talking. 

â€œI got to thinking. Then I got to asking.â€ He put a hand on the glass, peering down at his friend. â€œI know you could have been having symptoms for years, andâ€¦â€ He sighed. â€œBut I didnâ€™t think so. Things only went really bad for you after we visited that archaeological site, so I asked them to send me everything they had. Kind of a last-ditch effort, shot-in-the-dark kind of thing, you know? And they did, but thatâ€™s notâ€¦â€ He shook his head. The voices were worse, today, then theyâ€™d been last night, and he was having trouble staying focused. â€œYou remember our guide, Nar? You know, short guy, light hair, long ears?â€ Trip motioned with his hands, sketching out his words in the air before him. â€œWhen he heard you were sick, he thought there might be something. Turns out, he was right. In his translations, he â€“â€ Trip rubbed a weary hand across his face. He was messing this all up. Heâ€™d been up most of the night, trying to ignore the damn voices while he poured through the data theyâ€™d been sent. Heâ€™d spent most of the morning in meetings with Phlox, the captain and Tâ€™Pol, as theyâ€™d tried to figure out what they could do with the information, as he tried to convince them of the validity of his plan. Now he was here, and he was well and truly wiped. But even if he wasnâ€™t saying this clearly, even if Malcolm couldnâ€™t hear him, he wanted to be the one to tell him. 

â€œNar sent up translations of the Xandtian writings, from the building you were in, as well as from elsewhere at that site. Ends up, some thousands of years ago, theyâ€™d left their planet and tried to colonise another world, bring people into the fold, create an empire, but something had forced them back.â€

Trip took a careful breath, trying to slow down. He wanted to be clear, if only so he could understand it better himself. â€œThat planet theyâ€™d tried to colonize? We think that was Earth. At least, Tâ€™Pol thinks so, and I think Hoshi was right about the connection between the local language and that of the Thracians. 

They designed theseâ€¦devices. Problem is, they didnâ€™t know human physiology very well. Or maybe, who knows, back then maybe it could have worked, but either itâ€™s changed or we have, because now all it can do isâ€¦â€ Trip stopped and looked away. Malcolm knew very well what it could do. 

â€œRemember that basin you touched?â€ 

Malcolm made no response. 

Trip bit the next words out, trying not to choke on them. â€œYou were in their fucking lab, Malcolm. And it, and youâ€¦â€ He shook his head, thinking that if he hadnâ€™t risked that stupid question back on the bridge, risked touching the basin himself, Malcolm would have ended up back on Earth, locked away in some hospital, taking drugs that couldnâ€™t help him because they were for something else. 

Trip dropped his voice to a whisper, talking to himself now, more than anything. â€œYouâ€™re not schizophrenic, Malcolm. But you are sick.â€

He raised his voice again. â€œBut I spoke to Phlox. Weâ€™re going to cut off their power supply. Problem is, kid, that power supply is you. Soâ€¦ Phlox thinks heâ€™ll be able to, to stop your heart, and to... Well, hopefully, thatâ€™ll be enough.â€ Trip had to take a moment. It was almost overwhelming, thinking about the import of that. What if Phlox couldnâ€™t restart Malcolmâ€™s heart, orâ€¦ lots of what ifs, there. â€œBut Phlox thinks he can do it. And youâ€™ll still have to taper off the drugs youâ€™re on. But thenâ€¦?â€

Trip dug his nails into his palms as his breath hitched. Even so, he felt tears streaming down his cheeks. He gave up trying to fight them. Instead, he released a breath and smiled. 

â€œYou might be okay.â€

x-x

â€œClear!â€ Phlox shouted.

Trip heard the thump of the defibrillator as the doctor tried to revive his friend, and the high pitched whine as the monitors warned of, ofâ€¦ 

Trip turned away to face the wall. Arms up against it, he kicked out, boot impacting hard against its surface.

â€œTrip?â€

He didnâ€™t turn, unsure if the voice was in his head or real. In the stress of the moment, heâ€™d lost track. 

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he looked up into concerned green eyes. Jon. 

â€œPromise me you wonâ€™t tell him,â€ Trip said in a desperate whisper, thinking of the basin, and the voices, and the voices, they wereâ€¦

â€œYouâ€™ve killed him.â€

God in heaven. 

â€œI already said â€“â€ 

Trip jerked away. â€œPromise!â€ 

Jon stood still with is hands up, palms out. â€œAll right, Trip,â€ he said, voice soft and even, as if he were speaking with a skittish animal.

â€œClear!â€

Trip heard the punch of the device again, and he put his hands over his ears, frantic. Still not looking at the nearby scene, he slammed his eyes shut. He couldnâ€™t listen. He wouldnâ€™t listen. It didnâ€™t help. Nothing helped. The voices were accusing him of killing his friend, of being wrong, of destroying everything around him. 

He knew Jon was going to kill him if he was wrong. What heâ€™d done to Malcolm, to himself. Heâ€™d lied. Heâ€™d deliberately touched the basin, infecting himself. Heâ€™d killed his friend. And himself, heâ€™d infected himself, Malcolm had to survive, this treatment had to work, or heâ€™d be stuck like, heâ€™d have to, God, stupid God-damned voices, he couldnâ€™t get away from them. Jon would kill him if he was wrong. 

His eyes flashed open, and he stared at Malcolm lying lifeless on the biobed. 

No. No. If he was wrong, heâ€™d take care of it himself. 

x-x

Malcolm opened his eyes and found himself staring at the wall in front of him. He frowned. 

All right, that was odd. He feltâ€¦

Pushing himself up from the bench, he turned slowly and sat, taking in the room around him. The lights were dim, as they often were while he slept, and they cast the room into shades of blue. 

He felt all right. Not all right like before, where something he couldnâ€™t quite put his finger on was still niggling in the background; but really all right. Even if this was a temporary respite, still, he was grateful. He felt clearer, less confused, more connected to the world around him. He felt somewhat as he had before all this had happened. 

He heard a rustling noise from nearby and he turned his head, only to realise that the door was open. A curtain had been pulled across it, filtering the light that would otherwise pour in from sickbay and giving him a bit of privacy. The fabric was moving slightly. Someone had obviously just passed. 

He stood unsteadily and, without thinking about it, stepped to the curtain and pulled it aside. The room beyond was bright, and he squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes. 

Phlox looked up from where he was working at one counter. Otherwise, the room was empty. 

The doctor smiled and stepped in his direction. â€œAh, Mr. Reed. Youâ€™ve been out for a while. Good to see you up and about. How are you feeling?â€

â€œIâ€™m not sure,â€ Malcolm replied. â€œFine,â€ he added, for once meaning it. 

â€œIâ€™d expect so,â€ Phlox replied, and his grin widened. â€œYou should be able to go back to your own quarters in a day or so.â€

Malcolm grabbed the doorframe for support. â€œWhat? Why?â€

â€œAh, yes,â€ Phlox said, reaching his side. He grasped Malcolmâ€™s arm and led him into the room, toward a nearby chair. â€œI expect you donâ€™t remember very clearly. Why donâ€™t you have a seat?â€ His grin grew impossibly, inhumanly wide. â€œWe have a lot to discuss.â€

x-x

Malcolm tugged at the collar of his uniform, peering carefully at himself in his lavatory mirror. He looked all right, but it actually felt a bit odd, being in uniform again after so long not. 

He ran a hand through his hair. Dark, as usual; only a few greys yet, despite the experiences of late. It was a bit long. He hadnâ€™t had a chance to get it cut, and it had grown out during his illness. Now, no matter what he tried to do to it, it ended up curling over his forehead. He made note to make an appointment. 

His hand shook as he pushed an errant strand back, and he lowered it quickly, turning on the water from the tap and thrusting both hands under it, giving them a scrub. He was nervous as hell, if he cared to admit it. It had been some time since heâ€™d last been on bridge duty; since heâ€™d been on any kind of duty. It had taken him a while to become well enough to take this step. Even once theyâ€™d figured everything out, heâ€™d needed to undergo Phloxâ€™s treatment, recover from that, then taper off the anti-psychotics and other drugs. 

It could all have been so much worse. Trip might not have found the connection. By now, heâ€™d have been back on Earth, locked away somewhere. Or the disease might have been more communicable, and everyone on the ship could have been infected. They were all of them lucky that it required the subject to touch the devices directly before they could work. As it was, it had just been him, the sole unlucky soul whoâ€™d been driven to madness. 

And here he was, sane again. Lucky him. 

The hallucinations had seemed so real. He still rememberedâ€¦ His hands stilled, and he stared up at his reflection. He looked the same as he had, before. Hair a bit longer, same pale skin, eyes still as blue, but otherwiseâ€¦ 

He turned away, grabbing the towel from the rack beside the sink and drying his hands quickly. The pain and stiffness of the injuries heâ€™d done himself were mostly gone. He was off the drugs, and had passed all of Phloxâ€™s many and random tests. The doctor had pronounced him well. And he felt well. What he didnâ€™t quite feel â€“ not yet, anyway â€“ was â€œhimself.â€ He huffed a small laugh as he replaced the towel. To be entirely honest, he was no longer completely sure who that â€œselfâ€ was. 

Before, everything heâ€™d done was centred on his being in control of himself and his environment. Heâ€™d lost that, and regainedâ€¦ what, exactly? He was glad to be healthy again, certainly, but mental health didnâ€™t seem to be giving him clues as to how he was supposed to live.

Add to that uncertainty the idea of stepping out onto the bridge after a long absence, the evaluating eyes of everyone on him. Theyâ€™d be wondering if heâ€™d crack again. Theyâ€™d be watching for signs. It was perfectly understandable. In their place, he would be as well. But that didnâ€™t mean he had to be happy about it. 

He felt the hint of a headache building, so he reached into the medicine chest for the bottle of analgesics. Opening it, he fumbled and it fell, spilling small white pills across the floor. 

And with that, his door chime went. Of course. 

With a sigh, he answered it. 

Trip stood there, in uniform. He took one look at Malcolm and raised a brow. â€œYou okay?â€

Malcolm closed his eyes briefly, composing himself. â€œSorry, yes. Come in.â€ He stepped aside so Trip could enter. 

â€œYou look good,â€ Trip said, eyeing Malcolmâ€™s uniform. 

â€œThank you,â€ Malcolm replied, trying not to wince as he thought of his hair. â€œIs there something I can help you with?â€

â€œNo,â€ Trip said with a small smile. His eyes wandered around Malcolmâ€™s cabin. â€œThe opposite, actual â€“.â€ Trip cut himself off with a frown, and Malcolm realised he probably had caught sight of the pills scattered across the lavatory floor. Trip turned concerned eyes on him. 

Malcolm returned his gaze, feeling a bit sheepish. â€œHeadache.â€

Trip slipped into what Malcolm liked to call his â€œCommader Modeâ€. Expression serious, he asked, â€œAre you okay?â€

Malcolm stood a bit straighter. â€œIâ€™m fine, Commander.â€

Trip crossed his arms over his chest, one hand folded in a fist. â€œDid Phlox say it was all right?â€

â€œSorry?â€ Malcolm asked, having no idea what Trip was on about. 

â€œFor you to take meds and stuff, on your own?â€

â€œIâ€™m not an infant,â€ Malcolm bit out. Then, realising what heâ€™d just done, he went to attention, staring straight ahead. 

â€œMalcolm,â€ Trip said, warning in his tone. â€œIf youâ€™re not feeling well, you should go to sickbay.â€

Malcolm stood there stiffly. If he had to spend one more second in sickbay â€“ Trip, of all people, should realise. He almost spat back a sarcastic response, but he made the mistake of looking at Trip first. When he saw the anxiety etched on Tripâ€™s face, he couldnâ€™t help but relent. â€œFine,â€ he said, briefly closing his eyes as he exhaled the word. Trip was only worried about him. After all, at least in Tripâ€™s eyes, all this had started with a headache. â€œSorry. Yes. I will.â€

â€œOkay,â€ Trip said. â€œIâ€™ll walk you there.â€

Malcolm couldnâ€™t help but let his response show on his face. If the man clearly thought him incapable of even that simple thing, what must Trip think of him going back to work? 

Tripâ€™s eyes widened. â€œNot that Iâ€¦â€ He rolled his eyes self-mockingly. â€œItâ€™s not like that.â€ He held up a hand and unfurled its fingers, revealing an angry red welt on his palm. Now it was Tripâ€™s turn to look sheepish. â€œBurned myself in engineering. I was on my way there anyway.â€

â€œOh,â€ Malcolm said, feeling like a complete git. 

â€œYeah, â€˜Oh.â€™ So donâ€™t be so paranoid â€“â€ Tripped stopped himself, his look of shock sliding into a nervous wince. â€œSorry. Shit.â€

Malcolm felt that one in his gut, but he kept his face carefully composed. People were going to say things like that. If he was sensitive about the subject, that was his problem, not theirs. Trying to cover his disquiet, he said, â€œNo, itâ€™s all right, Commander. Paranoiaâ€™s an occupational hazard. Helps with the job.â€

Trip looked grateful. With a smile, he clapped Malcolm on the back, and they left the room, heading toward Sickbay. â€œSo, you kind of missed a lot while you wereâ€¦â€

â€œNuts?â€ Malcolm asked neutrally. He glanced at Trip, keeping his expression purposefully open, letting Trip off the hook.

Trip shrugged. Then he smiled. â€œOr something.â€

â€œSuch asâ€¦â€ Malcolm said, leading Trip back to the topic at hand. 

â€œTravis finally beat Hoshi in poker.â€

â€œYou are not serious,â€ Malcolm said, genuinely surprised. â€œHow?â€

As Trip started explaining, eyes flashing and hands moving as he described the events in detail, they proceeded down the corridor. Malcolm let the words flow over him, not paying much attention to what, precisely, was being said, and more to how his friend was saying it. Trip had his entire focus on Malcolm as they walked, so much so that he nearly crashed into a crewmember as they rounded a corner. 

Trip turned a complete circle as he passed the woman, eyes on her backside, eyebrows raised in appreciation as she travelled away from them, all the while still in animated description of Travis versus Hoshi. Malcolm had to try hard to smother a laugh. 

Leave it to Trip to find a way to both lower his anxiety level and help him feel more connected with his crewmates. Heâ€™d bet that Trip had this entire conversation planned out. He wouldnâ€™t even be surprised if Trip had purposefully bumped that woman, although that might be stretching things a bit. Still, the man was a master. 

Trip probably didnâ€™t realise that Malcolm knew what he was doing, but at this point, Malcolm knew the man well enough to know when he was being played. But if it worked, it worked. After all, what else were friends for, than to help one take those first steps on oneâ€™s path back to sanity and some sort of normal life?

Trip laughed and clapped him on the back, and Malcolm found himself returning that smile. 

It was good to be back. 

x-x

Trip let Malcolm precede him through the sickbay doors, noting the stiff set of the manâ€™s shoulders as he entered. He hadnâ€™t been back here, himself, since everything had happened â€“ heâ€™d been purposefully avoiding the place. He couldnâ€™t imagine what Malcolm felt right now. Well, maybe he could. 

He hung by the door as Malcolm approached Phlox. Poor kid. A headache was entirely understandable, under the circumstances. He could imagine the pressure he was feeling today, with his first time back on duty, and bridge duty, at that. Every eye would be on him, everyone knowing what had happened. At least, in his own case, only Jon and Phlox knew the details.

When a medic, Ensign Ramirez, caught his eye, Trip stepped forward and explained his burn, all the while keeping an eye on Malcolm from across the room. As the doctor buzzed over his friend, and Ramirez started treating his own burned hand, memories flowed over, around and past him. Memories of Malcolm on a biobed, out to the world due to the sedatives Phlox had pushed through him; of stopping Malcolmâ€™s heart, and the interminableâ€¦ God, it had seemed like hours, but it must have been mere seconds before Phlox had first tried restarting Malcolmâ€™s heart. 

He winced, and Ramirez murmured a soft apology, probably thinking that it was the burn that was disturbing him. It wasnâ€™t. It was the memories. He remembered too much. He remembered far too well. 

He had pretty much lost his shit in there, between the voices and the pressures and the illness and everything else. But in the end, theyâ€™d done it. Malcolm had survived. Theyâ€™d survived. Theyâ€™d gone through hell, and come out the other end healthy, although not necessarily unscarred. 

Trip exhaled loudly, and Ramirez looked up at him, concerned. 

â€œMaybe you should sit down for this.â€

Rather than argue, Trip allowed himself be led to the nearest exam bed, sliding up onto it. Malcolm was still across the room, in conversation with Phlox. The doctor had the analgesic in hand, but it looked like he was giving Malcolm a bit of a lecture, as Malcolm was standing before him, arms crossed, expression guarded, head tilted to the side as he listened. And listened. After a moment, Malcolm shook his head, and Phlox smiled. 

He wasnâ€™t looking forward to telling Malcolm what heâ€™d done. Itâ€™d been hard enough telling Phlox, never mind Jon, and Malcolm? That conversation, he didnâ€™t want to think about. 

Interestingly enough, Phlox had been all right with it. Theyâ€™d gone from a discussion of what Trip had done, down on the planet, to his idea for how to shut the nano-machines off, to possible ways of doing that, all in the space of a minute. 

Maybe Denobulan doctors were used to taking that sort of risk, exposing themselves to potential hazards in order to prove a hypothesis or something. Or maybe Phlox was just really good at covering up his reactions, when he had to be. 

Jon wasnâ€™t quite as good at that. 

Trip pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, and Ramirez looked up from his work. 

â€œHeadache,â€ Trip said simply. 

Ramirez nodded. â€œIâ€™ll give you something for that.â€

â€œThanks,â€ Trip said vaguely, his mind only half focused on the-hear-and-now. 

â€œPhlox told me,â€ Jon had said, and even now, Trip could still feel the impact of those words. Heâ€™d wanted to be the one to tell Jon. It hadnâ€™t worked out that way. 

He had been sitting on one of the biobeds when Jon had shown up. Heâ€™d beenâ€¦ ah, right. Heâ€™d been fiddling with the edge of his sickbay gown, keeping his focus on his hands rather than on the medics swirling around him. It was as if, by not looking at the medics, he afforded himself a bit of privacy at a time when he was feeling vulnerable and exposed. Sort of what he was doing with the voices. He felt like, if heâ€™d just stop and listen, heâ€™d be able to understand what they were saying. The key was to not stop, and not listen. 

Phlox was off preparing for Malcolmâ€™s treatment. If it worked, heâ€™d be next. Trip huffed a soft laugh. Thank God for that, because this was all starting to get a bit much. 

Hearing footsteps, he looked up to find himself trapped in Jonâ€™s gaze, and his laughter fell away. His friendâ€™s face was composed, but his eyes â€“ his eyes showed what he was feeling. Before Trip could say anything, tell him what heâ€™d done, try to explain why, Jon was already talking. 

â€œPhlox told me.â€

Trip felt a chill at those words. Hands shifting to clench at the edge of the bed, Trip tried to interject. â€œJon, I â€“â€

â€œYou what, exactly?â€ Jon said sharply, voice low. With a pointed glance, he sent the medics scurrying away. â€œYou decided to risk yourself on the off chance that you â€“â€

â€œBut I was â€“â€

Jon stepped in close, and Trip had to look up at the man. â€œI donâ€™t care if you were right,â€ Jon said, words harsh and biting. â€œI donâ€™tâ€¦â€ He shook his head slowly, letting out an audible sigh. â€œTrip, sometimes I think you just donâ€™t get it. Youâ€™re the chief engineer of our first Warp Five ship. What in the world were you thinking? What did you think weâ€™d do without you?â€

And suddenly, Trip got it. This wasnâ€™t his captain talking. This was his friend, Jon. Yes, there was concern for the vessel and their mission, but under all that was a concern for him, and Jonâ€™s own fear. It was more than the fact that Jon had been scared of losing a crewmember. Heâ€™d been scared that heâ€™d lose a friend. 

Trip wrapped his fingers over his knees and stared down at them, feeling like a small child being chastised by his dad. Heâ€™d been unable to respond. How could he? It wasnâ€™t as if Jon hadnâ€™t been right. Jon, as both his friend and captain, was in a difficult spot, and it was as if he had finally realised that the two roles, captain and friend, might not mesh well together. 

Ramirez gave Trip a shot of something, the shock of it bringing him back to the present. His hand had been bandaged, and Malcolm was waiting patiently across the room, sliding long, dark leaves through the bars of one of Phloxâ€™s animal cages.

He and Jon had spoken since that conversation, but things were not quite the same between them; not yet, anyway. Trip hoped they could be. Because even now, after all this, he still felt heâ€™d had no choice. Theyâ€™d been about to leave that planet. Malcolm was sick, all but lost to them, and was about to be returned to Earth to be treated for a disease that he might not even have. And Trip, he had nothing but hunches and suspicions prompted by translations they werenâ€™t even sure about, and he was desperate. Maybe heâ€™d been rash, but there had literally only been seconds to spare. 

Heâ€™d make the same decision again. 

As the medic moved away, Phlox, obviously finished with Malcolm, came over and checked the medicâ€™s bandage. His action was obviously a feint, because Ramirez was well experienced, and Phlox usually trusted the man to do work on his own. 

Phlox, voice low, murmured, â€œDoing well, Commander?â€

â€œYes,â€ Trip replied, waiting for the doctor to say whatever he had in mind. 

Phlox give him a piercing look. â€œYou should tell him.â€

Trip glanced to Malcolm. Phlox knew the lieutenant well enough to know the burden the man tended to place on himself, often needlessly. Malcolm was good at a lot of things, but he was a master at guilt. Trip nodded sharply, if only to end the conversation.

Phlox returned his nod. 

As Trip slid off the bed, Malcolm stepped away from the cages. â€œReady to go?â€ he asked, brushing the leaves from his fingers. 

Trip nodded again, and let Malcolm lead the way out of sickbay. He smiled after his friend, glad to see him acting so normal.

The doctor was right. He really did have to tell Malcolm, sooner or later. And he would. Just not now. He knew the guilt that Malcolm would feel. He also knew that Malcolm would probably think heâ€™d taken a needless risk. It had been a risk, but it had been far from needless. Heâ€™d do it again, in a heartbeat. 

Trip walked Malcolm from sickbay to the bridge, noticing, as they got closer, that his friend had gone from somewhat-relaxed to clearly-anxious to positively-nervous in the course of a few meters. 

As they reached the doors to the bridge, Malcolm took a deep breath, as if to settle himself. He triggered the doors and made to step inside. Just as he did so, he gave Trip a brief glance, his expression caught somewhere between resigned and panicked. 

Trip knew that no one on the bridge could see him, not from this angle. So he smiled slightly and, sotto voce, said, â€œGood luck, Lieutenant.â€ Then he put on his best, most official salute, albeit tempered by crossed eyes and a stuck-out tongue. He was gratified to see Malcolmâ€™s expression change from clearly freaked to completely exasperated just as the doors shut, cutting him off from view. 

Trip smiled. If it took him playing the clown to ease this thing for Malcolm, he was more than willing to do it. After all, if couldnâ€™t rely on your friends to bring you back from the brink of whatever and help you get the fuck over yourself sometimes, then what? 

Patting the door gently with his injured hand, he turned and headed toward Engineering. 

x-x

End


End file.
